A Rare Bird
by missparker85
Summary: Hermione learns to deal with her sadness.
1. The Recovery

Hermione graduates Hogwarts, officially and technically, on a Saturday in very early June. She takes her diploma and her belongings and she leaves the castle with no immediate plans to ever return. She is angry and hurt and, most importantly, perhaps, unforgiving.

At first, her parents are delicate and kind to her. They speak quietly and walk softly down the hall outside her room. She has come home for an undetermined amount of time. She has several job offers, many acceptances to wizarding universities all over Britain, Europe, and one from the States. She has ignored these and instead gone back to the muggle world. She comes home and gets into bed and for the rest of June and one week of July, she rarely leaves it.

Still, her parents are only so understanding. Soon they inform her that the least they can do is fill in for the receptionist in their dental office who has recently gone on maternity leave. She does this for her family out of a sense of duty and little else.

In the morning she puts on a skirt, a button down white oxford shirt and sensible black shoes with a mild heel. It is a variation on a Hogwarts uniform – all she has worn in seven years and perhaps all she knows how to wear any more. The jacket instead of a cloak feels incorrect and foreign, even the light summer one meant only for early mornings. Her arms feel trapped – there is no pocket for her wand.

The job is easy. She answers the phone, schedules appointments and takes checks from those without proper insurance. It is mindless and not nearly distracting enough. She is sad all of the time.

The summer ends. Hermione is pale and underweight. September brings heavy rainstorms and there is lightning when her father calls her into his study. He tells her that she is no longer welcome to stay with them.

"What?" She is disbelieving – she has heard wrong. But her father is a stoic, serious man who rarely says what he does not mean.

"You have been grieving and I respect that, but now you are only wallowing," he says. "You take a job or you go back to school, but you can't stay here."

As mad as she is, she can almost understand this. Her mother cries but she doesn't fight for her daughter to stay.

Hermione takes a minimum wage job in a bookstore in London. It is a muggle bookstore and the wage they pay her is small. She takes a room above The Leaky Cauldron because it includes a meal each day and is surprisingly inexpensive. She sits the first night at a table alone. All she can hear are whispers.

"Poor girl, all alone. Lost her best friend and her boyfriend, you know."

Hermione doesn't want their pity and takes her supper in her room from then on.

She is stocking shelves when Neville Longbottom enters the store. She is alerted to his presence by the tinkling of a bell attached to the door. She isn't happy to see him.

"Hello," he says. She knows exactly how he found her. An owl to her parents – a response on lined paper with a ballpoint pen. It feels slightly like betrayal.

"I'm working," she says.

"Haven't you heard?" Neville asks. She tries not to be curious but she doesn't stay in touch with anyone anymore and she knows there is much she doesn't hear. "I guess not…. I guess that's why they sent me after you."

"What?" she snaps, impatient.

"The portrait, he's asking for you, Hermione."

At first, she doesn't understand. There is no painting of Harry, and of course none of Ron.

"Who?" she asks, setting the book she is holding back onto the cart.

"Dumbledore," he says. "He woke up."

Hermione quits her job and shrinks her things. She checks out of her room and apparates to Hogsmeade. It is November; it is cold. It threatens to rain and begins to snow. She walks slowly – she can see her breath. By the time she makes it to the main gates, she is shivering. It is the middle of the day and she can see students rushing to and from the greenhouses. The snow is sticking to her hair and her clothes and by morning, the grounds will be covered.

She enters the castle through the main doors. There are students, some she recognizes. She thinks numbly for a moment of Ginny Weasley who is most likely in the castle as well. Ginny who lost just as much as Hermione, Ginny who lost more.

No one speaks to Hermione. She doesn't meet any eyes on her way up the stairs. Her cloak is wet and heavy; it drags a little on the floor. She is tired when she reaches the gargoyles. She is too skinny, too alone. She doesn't know the password and is made to wait.

Soon, almost in no time, the staircase emerges and she takes one last climb. In the antechamber, Professor (Headmistress) McGonagall is waiting for her. She tries to smile but the sight of Hermione is jarring.

"Miss Granger," she says. "Thank you for coming."

"Hello," she says. She removes her cloak and leaves it on the bench outside. She will come back later to find it warm and dry, the work of the elves. She doesn't allow McGonagall to touch her; she evades the intended hand to her forearm and enters the heated office. She knows exactly where the portrait is hung and seeing the face of her once beloved Headmaster threatens to break her resolve. Still, it is not really him. It is paint and magic and memory at best.

"Miss Granger," he says, looking down from on high.

"Yes, Sir," she says. His face is relaxed and he looks younger than his real life counterpart was.

"How are you doing?" he asks. Not well, she thinks. But she doesn't answer. She lifts her chin slightly, she sets her jaw, she holds onto her anger and ignores her grief. "I have to say that I was surprised when I asked to speak with you and your whereabouts were unknown."

"I graduated, sir, and moved on," she says. "That is quite normal."

"You are a war hero," he says.

"No."

"I am sorry about the loss of…"

"That is something I am unwilling to talk about. Please, why am I here?"

"Professor Snape has gone on sabbatical," he says, conversationally.

"Has he?" she asks. She is bored now, and increasingly desperate to leave the round office.

"I think you should stay in the castle for a while," Dumbledore says.

"You expect me to follow orders from a painting?" she directs the question to McGonagall who frowns.

"Severus has asked that you tend to his classes," McGonagall says.

"Me?" she asks.

Hermione has no job, no room, no home, and no idea how to tell them no. They give her quarters – a single room with a bathroom. She has one set of proper robes – high necked and long sleeved, black robes. She tries not to question anything for the night. She lays in bed, in the darkness, and she lets the pillow quietly absorb her tears.

She doesn't speak with the portrait again. In the morning she showers and appears at breakfast. She is severely pale against the dark wool of her robes and she doesn't smile or wave at those she knows, even Ginny or Luna. It occurs to her that she is not happy about being summoned, about having to stay. Snape's classroom is the same – his office unlocked to her. The only notable difference is the lack of personal items. It is subtle – there were not many to begin with. The book of lessons is sitting neatly on the desk, lined up with the blotter.

During the last battle, Severus Snape had saved her life and she had saved his. He had shielded her body from a spell with his own. She had, in turn, pulled his body to safety, effectively taking them both out of the fight.

She'd left Ron and Harry without her protection, and they had both died. But so had Voldemort.

Now, Hermione opens the book of lesson plans and sees his handwriting – her name on top of the page. She cannot decide if she has no debt to Snape or if she owes him for the rest of their lives. Maybe he owes her too. They are both angry at being alive.

It isn't proper for her to be substituting for him. She is too young and too undereducated though perfectly capable of performing the task. Her first years look relieved upon seeing her but that quickly fades as she barks orders and fails to tolerate mistakes. She has thought about teaching but never like this. Still, she cannot seem to change when the next class comes. She is mean.

After lunch, the older children already know what to expect. They enter solemnly and call her Professor Granger. The name hangs heavy and uncomfortable in the air. She averts one smoking disaster, banishing the contents of a hot cauldron. The fourth years leave vials of sludge on her desk – a potion for nothing.

After dinner, she returns to the dungeons and tries the handle of the door that leads to Snape's living quarters. The door opens easily. She has never been in here, but it is obvious here too that he is gone. The bookshelves are bare, the bed stripped of linens, the closet full of empty hangers. Even the bar is not stocked; the inkwells on the desk only empty jars.

The bathroom is so far superior to the one in her rooms that she moves into his quarters that night without telling anyone. She makes up the bed, hangs her few clothes, and sets wards. Her parents owl her the final paycheck from the bookstore and she, rather frivolously, spends it on robes. All of them are dark colored, all demurely cut.

Ginny is in her class twice a week. Hermione cannot and will not show her favoritism but after one of the classes, they sit in Hermione's office and have tea. There isn't a lot to say in the end.

"Why are you here, doing this?" Ginny asks.

"Snape asked for me," she responds.

"My family says hello," Ginny says, dutifully. Hermione nods her acknowledgement.

After a week, Hermione inquires as to how long Snape is going to be on sabbatical. The standard amount is to the semester, or perhaps a full year but he has left mid term, an unusual absence that coincided with the return, in a way, of Dumbledore. McGonagall can give her no concrete answer, no finite timeline. Hermione assures her that she'll stay on until his return. They pay her well and she is home, in a sense, though uncomfortable. She thought she could escape the castle, that life.

She asks McGonagall if there is a way to contact Snape, if she knows where he is. Again, there is no answer but Hermione is not surprised. She doesn't know what she would say to him anyway, except to ask why. She can already hear his answer in his head, a silky, condescending "Why not?"

At Christmas, she stays in the castle and coolly declines the invitation home – they had, after all, asked her to leave. She had done what they asked – gotten a job and gone back to school. She concedes, however, to go to the Weasleys on Christmas morning, skipping the customary Christmas Eve celebration. The morning of is only family. Any other year, Harry would have been included in that group. Now, Hermione is the only non-Weasley. Even Fleur fits in better than she does. They eat breakfast and they exchange gifts but it is somber and difficult and every second she is there, Hermione wants to be gone.

"Professor Snape was here last night, for the party," Ginny informs her, as she is putting on her cloak to leave. No one begs her to stay. The mention of Snape perks her interest.

"Did you ask what he was doing, where he was staying?" she asks, but Ginny shakes her head.

"He barely said one word," Ginny says. Hermione shrugs and winds her scarf around her neck. She thanks Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, nods to the rest of the Weasleys.

"Happy Christmas," she says to Ginny and walks out the door.

The castle is decorated for the holiday but she encounters no one. She enters her quarters quietly, half expecting Snape to be there, waiting for her, but the rooms are quiet and dark and cold. She runs a hot bath and spends the day and the night alone.

Snape's private lab is clean and well organized and Hermione spends the rest of the vacation there. She makes advanced potions for the infirmary and experiments with recipes of her own. She finds a book filled with Snape's writing – notes on his potions, his work. She reads them all, picks one, and continues his research. At the end of the day, her skin is dry, her hair greasy, from leaning over cauldrons all day.

The year swims along. She is caught up in the ebb and flow of time passing – of meals in the great hall, of nights grading papers, of staff meetings in which she stands away from the group near the window, watching the seasons change. She feels untethered. She doesn't know when Snape will return, she doesn't know if she will be asked back to teach for another year. If she is not, she does not know where to go. She is thinking of reapplying to some schools; thinking of majoring in potions.

On the Friday before Easter Sunday, a holiday not celebrated at Hogwarts – a holiday even the muggle children forget about over time – many of Hermione's questions are answered. She is mid-lecture. She recites the lecture bored, holding notes but not bothering to glance at them. The lecture is embedded wholly into her memory, it is a lecture she's heard Snape give and she repeats it word for word. When the door to her classroom opens, she falters only for a moment, but keeps going. When heads begin to turn she snaps, "Pay attention," fiercely and all the heads snap back around to face her. She does not let his presence rattle or intimidate her. She finishes and gets everyone started on the brewing before she walks to the back of the classroom where he is standing with his arms crossed.

"I'd appreciate it if you would no interrupt my class," she says coldly. He actually smirks at this.

"Who's class?" he asks, softly. The students are uncharacteristically silent, straining to listen to the conversation between them.

"I'll speak to you at lunch," she says, reaching around him and pushing the classroom door open. A few students gasp – her behavior is rude but he merely walks through the door, shutting it behind him. When she turns back around, all the students appear to be working studiously.

He reappears at the toll of the bells, calling everyone to the next meal. She is erasing the chalkboard with an eraser and he clears his throat.

"I suppose you'd like your job back," she says, turning around.

"You sound disappointed," he says, matching her stiff posture, hands on hips.

"I have a couple of questions," she says.

"I'm sure," he says. "Don't you want to eat lunch?" She is indifferent either way, but he obviously does so they walk to the great hall. At the high table, there is only one empty chair left. She takes a seat and he conjures up another one, sitting at the end, several seats away from her. They cannot talk for now.

She eats but she doesn't enjoy it. The once decadent food now seems frivolous and unsatisfying. She doesn't talk to the people on either side of her and they don't expect conversation. Everyone has made the adjustment to this new Hermione – sullen and unyielding in so many ways. She is tainted with loss. It is plainly visible and even Snape can see it in her.

Snape walks with her back to the office in the dungeons. He knows she has a free period after lunch because it is, after all, his schedule. She is unforgiving toward him; she makes him sit in the guest chair, facing his own desk.

"You're mad at me," he says. She can see that he is surprised at this.

"Yes," she says. "I suppose I am."

"I suppose I have a myriad of reasons to choose from," he says. He does not seem alarmed – at best, amused. "But for posterity, which is at the top of the list?"

"Why did you want me to take over your classes?" she asks. He rolls his eyes. This is what has her most upset and most perplexed.

"I thought you would like it," he says. She smiles then, the first in nearly a year.

"Really?" she asks. He nods.

"I had to go away; I had to take care of a few things. I honestly thought that you would enjoy the experience," he reinforces.

"We aren't friends," she reminds him.

"You saved my life," he says.

"Only after you saved mine," she replies. This lodges them somewhere between enemy and friend. They are trapped in a no-man's land, their relationship hazy. Hermione is brilliant, nineteen, and on a very narrow path of becoming the next Severus Snape. At least, the version of him that she is used to. She doesn't know this Snape who gives her an opportunity because he thinks she would enjoy it.

They are both transported to St. Mungo's, filtered through triage. At the castle, the battle still rages but they are in a clean, brightly lit hospital. Hermione's wounds are superficial. Her arm is bleeding and she is bruised. Snape, however, is dying. Hermione is pushed aside and he is whisked away. She tries to follow but someone holds her back. She gets fixed up – they bandage her arm because it is difficult to heal a magical wound with more magic. She watches her blood seep through the white gauze, staining it pink. Finally, someone bothers to tell her that Snape will live. Only then does she return to the castle. But by then, it is too late. It is over.

She is the only one in Snape's hospital room when he opens his eyes.

"Voldemort?" he asks. She nods. He is dead. But he can, perfectly well, read her expression and he knows not all is well. She recites him the list of dead in a gravelly, monotonous voice, her two friends at the top of the list. He can no longer bear to listen half way through, but she keeps going, speaking for herself.

In the office now, they sit in silence.

"I don't know what to do, anymore," she says. It slips out before she realizes that she has started to speak. He looks interested in the statement. He is interested in Hermione because she is broken. He wonders if she can be fixed.

"You can do anything you'd like," he says. "Go to university or whatever it is that you enjoy,"

She nods, an expected answer. One that is of no help. She stands, tired, hoping for some tea and reaches for a thin book from the shelf. It his journal, full of research and she hands it to him.

"You left this," she said. He takes it, opens it, sees her handwriting mingled with his but doesn't say anything. "I've also been living in your quarters; I hope you'll allow me a day to relocate."

"Of course," he says. She has not only taken over his lessons, but his life.

"Would you like me to finish teaching the day, or would you rather start immediately?"

"By all means," he says. She nods, once, and excuses herself from the office into his chambers. He cannot follow and so he doesn't. He leaves her alone for the rest of the day.

That night she spends some time filling out all the same applications again and sending them late, by owl. She isn't sure about deadlines, about when the spring or fall or summer semester starts but she hopes they will let her in again. She is not worried. Her name is easily recognized, her name precedes her.

She folds her things and puts them into her trunk. All of her robes are meant for this school and will look off-putting and anachronistic on her anywhere else. In muggle clothes, she blends right back in with the students. She is still herself. Smart, short, wild hair. She still has the clumsy habit of keeping her wand in her back pocket. But she is not a child.

It is late when Snape comes for a visit. She lets him in and he looks around the rooms that were his for so long and that would be again, she assumed.

"You haven't changed anything," he comments.

"I am a guest," she reminds him. She is temporary in every place she goes. She feels that she belongs nowhere and it is not a good feeling.

"You have been working on my potions," he says, foregoing the small talk.

"I figured if you didn't want me to see them, you would have taken that with you," she motions to the book in his hands, the book she has become familiar with. She is almost sad to see it go. When she was working on the potions, the research inside, she didn't think about anything else. She left parts of herself inside the book – her thoughts, her writing, a coffee ring on one of the pages.

It is nearly an hour past curfew and most of the castle is sleeping. Hogwarts has early mornings, but Hermione didn't have anything to get up for, tomorrow, on the weekend. Finally, she offers him a seat and watches carefully where he goes. He, instinctively, she thinks, sits in the most comfortable chair closest to the fire. It is the chair she would have picked. She sits across from him on the over-soft sofa, dark and leather. She doesn't like it, it isn't her style. She has nothing to offer him except water, so she doesn't bother.

"I have to say that there are some additions in here I was surprised by," he says, stroking the spine of the book.

"I have no secondary potions education, you know that," she says defensively.

"I mean," he says, "you made choices I wouldn't have made, intriguing ones," She realizes he is not condemning her, that perhaps he is trying merely to engage her in conversation that they both might find interesting.

"Fresh eyes," she says. He tilts his head. "I wish you could have spent more time on experimental potions in class, but after several months with your students, I understand why you never attempted that,"

"Yes," he says, dryly. Most of the students believed that there was nothing left to invent. "Miss Granger, if you didn't want to take this job, why did you say yes?"

She considers this though the answer is immediate and obvious in her mind. She has never said no to him.

"I would have been angry anywhere," she assures him. He stands and she does as well.

"Where will you go?" he asks. She shakes her head, that is a puzzle she has yet to solve. At least now she has some money saved – a slight buffer against sleeping on the street or slinking back to the family home with the promise of a more productive life. "Stay a few days," Snape says. He doesn't offer her any explanation as to why, but she finds herself nodding along.

"All right," she agrees. She doesn't offer to move from his rooms and he doesn't mention it at he leaves.

In the morning, the table in the great hall has been adjusted for both of their presence. Hermione is on time, to the minute, suddenly unaware of her place in the castle. She eats quietly and no one speaks to her. She rises to leave as Snape appears, tardy, but fully the professor once again. He looks angry, aloof, and he pours tea slowly into a white, china cup. She excuses herself to her rooms and when the bells ring over head to chime the hours passing, she feels utterly useless.

Two days of this. Two days, she thinks, isn't really that long, but hour after hour of drifting, purposeless existence wears on her and by the morning of day three, she begins to pack her things and prepare for her departure. She doesn't attend lunch and ten minutes into the meal, Snape comes to her rooms. He knocks three times in rapid succession and she lets him in.

"I thought you were staying," he says, looking at her open trunk, her tote bag spilling with books and rolls of parchment.

"For what?" she asks tiredly. "I'm a bump on a log, here,"

"Well, you didn't give me a chance to even tell you," he says, in his own dark version of exasperation. She looks at him, his arms crossed, her hands on her hips.

"Tell me what?"

"I've found you a program, if you're interested."

"Program?" she asks, curious despite herself.

"You were accepted into The University of Magic and Casting, London," he says.

"I was accepted a lot of places," she says. She doesn't ask how he knows. "I didn't feel it was the right time for me to enroll in a full time University."

"While you would obviously excel at any program, I think this one will suit you. It's an independent study course. You meet with an advisor on the campus once a week and the rest of your time is spent under independent tutelage of a master. In your case, potions." he says.

"You mean you?" she asks.

"Of course, unless you have befriended any other potions masters without my knowledge in the last few months,"

She almost laughs at his joke, but doesn't want to betray her intrigue, her excitement.

"It sounds… appealing," she says. She is reluctant to show him her cards, that her hand means nothing.

"I've set up a meeting for you in the morning," he says. "I hope you'll go."

"I'll go," she says, looking at her nails. "I'll see,"

In the morning, she puts on her dark robes, and pins back her hair in an attempt to tame the beast. She puts on black shoes and takes a cloak thought it's warm at the castle and out on the grounds. She leaves through the front door and Snape is in the foyer harassing some young Gryffindors. He watches her leave but doesn't offer her a smile or a nod. She steps out into the sunshine. In her hand is a piece of paper with his careful script on it. It is an address, a name, and a time. She's meeting with the head of the potions department. She isn't sure if it is an interview or if Snape has arranged it all beforehand. She goes in with low expectations in order not to be disappointed.

The office she ends up in is cramped and filled with mostly books and files stacked precariously on filing cabinets. It seemed the Dean needed a secretary more than anything else. Still, she tries not to judge and waits patiently for him to enter. He does, a few minutes later, in brown robes with glasses sliding slowly off the back of his bald head.

"Miss Granger, please forgive my tardiness," he says. She stands and shakes his hand and he beams at her. "What an honor it is to meet you,"

She is still not used to the praise from the more liberal members of wizard society and all she can do is lift one shoulder.

"Thank you for meeting with me," she says, seating herself again. "I know it's unorthodox,"

"Not at all," he says. "We're happy to have someone like you attending our institution," She can tell that he knows he's said something wrong. Her face has fallen a little, only slightly, because of the realization that she is getting this opportunity because of the war, not her transcripts. "You'll make a fine potions mistress,"

"Professor Snape has been awfully kind," she murmurs. This is not an interview at all. She signs her name on several rolls of parchment and when she inquires about payment, he waves his hand in his air.

"Hogwarts is more than happy to sponsor you," he says. "Here is all the information you'll need to begin next week," She looks down at what he has given her. The name of her advisor, the books she will need, the minimum amount of hours she'll need to spend with Snape each week to continue to qualify for the program.

"This looks fine," she says, now anxious to leave the office.

"I must say, Miss Granger, that we've been trying to get Severus Snape involved in our out student program for years and he has always declined. You're the first student he has ever agreed to teach."

"He saved my life, once," she says. She isn't sure why she has admitted it to this old, boring man but he looks uncomfortable and forces a smile.

"Welcome to UMCL," he says.

Back at the castle, she orders all the books she'll need by owl post instead of going out. It is a somewhat extravagant expense that will take several owls but she doesn't care. At least now she has a plan, a lighted path away from the dark place that she has been living in. She doesn't check in with anyone. She doesn't inform McGonagall of this new plan, of her intentions to stay. She goes back to Snape's quarters where she is still sleeping and lets herself in, tired and a little hungry. It is only a little past noon, but she has missed lunch and will have to go down to the kitchens to eat anything. She can hear Snape lecturing when she passes his classroom and she feels a little pang. She might end up missing teaching after all. She resists the urge to poke her head in, instead entering her rooms. She changes, she feels a little stifled in her proper robes and she puts on, for the first time in a long time, muggle clothes. Denim pants and a t-shirt, and a sweater with a hood. She looks critically at herself in the mirror. She doesn't look like a grown woman in many ways but she does have heavier breasts and wider hips – a gradual and mostly unnoticed change. Maybe she would blend in as a normal student, if no one knew who she was. What she felt least like was a hero. Heroes did not leave their friends to die.

Feeling sullen – guilty that she was even considering moving on, she pulls her photo album out of her trunk, pulls off the clothes she just put on, and climbs into bed intent on doing nothing but wallowing in her misery.

She is asleep when Snape comes to her door. She gets up and puts on a robe. She is groggy, unsure of the time. He doesn't comment on her state of undress, her messy hair, her red and puffy eyes.

"I've written out your schedule," he says, handing her a folded piece of paper. She takes it tentatively. Unfolded in is a perfect square on which he has drawn a grid to represent each day of the week. Sunday is the only empty column. She studies it, bringing it closer to her face.

"Teaching?" she asks.

"An easy way to acquire hours," he says, shrugging. "Only the first and second years,"

Horrible classes, she knows, but she is a little pleased. Saturday is filled with lab time as are many of the evenings.

"I'm sure it will be fine," she says, unwilling to complain.

"Minerva is glad you're staying," he offers benignly.

"I'll have to thank her," she says, refolding the paper and placing it in the pocket of her robe.

"I will see you in the morning," he says and leaves.

"Professor," she calls, and he turns back around. "I can… I mean, your rooms are yours whenever you are ready to move."

"Keep them," he says. "I find I'm enjoying the change of scenery,"

This is surprising but she just closes her door and looks around. She puts a few books on her shelves and takes down a landscape painting that she hates, sliding it inside the closet. She sleeps through the night.

Hermione has begun to notice that McGonagall is actively avoiding her. She cannot tell if she is respecting Hermione's need for space or if there is something wrong, something McGonagall doesn't like. Maybe Hermione serves as the last living remains of an era since passed – maybe Hermione is a beacon of sadness for others as well as for herself.

Hermione teaches two classes each day – none on Fridays or the weekends. At nights, she works on the assignments that Snape has left for her. She meets with him on Saturdays and he takes her work, looks over her progress, and gives her new assignments. He does not over manage her; does not look behind her as she works. In turn, she does not disappoint him. They fill out her weekly evaluation together and walk quietly to the owlry together to send it off to the university.

In the hallways, the younger students call her professor and the seventh years call her Hermione. The in between years avoid her because of her status as a hero, because she is always alone or with Snape, because she is not the same girl they once looked up to.

Soon, the year is over. Another class ready to move on, the last Weasley out of the castle for some years. Hermione sits with the staff and watches with a somewhat bored expression. She is hot in her robes, sitting in the sunshine. Her hair is damp closest to her neck and she can feel sweat pooling between her toes.

She claps demurely when the Gryffindors rise and she can see the Weasleys in the crowd – Bill and Molly and Arthur. Percy is dead now, Ron and Charlie, too. Fred and George are abroad and did not come back to watch their sister. Afterwards, Molly will hug Hermione and invite her to the burrow for iced tea and cake. She doesn't want to go but she can't figure out a way to say no.

Ginny's face is sunburned bright pink and she does not smile as she crosses the stage.

The burrow looks the same. Still narrow and teetering, still filled with dishes and people and throw blankets. Arthur congratulates Hermione on her job at the school, for furthering her education. She likes Arthur so much and he takes a moment to remind her that she is part of the family.

Hermione sneaks away up the stairs to go sit in Ron's empty room. There is a bare mattress and several stacked boxes. Pig's cage is empty – Ginny has forgotten to gather him from the castle's owlry. Hermione makes a mental note to send the owl home.

No one finds her in Ron's room. She goes back downstairs, leaves her gift for Ginny and leaves with few goodbyes.

Though it is summer, her studies continue. She has more time without teaching classes. She spends more time in the lab – sometimes while Snape works as well. It is hot, hotter than it has been in years. Hermione wakes up early before the heat really sets into the castle. She wears shorts and t-shirts; she puts up her hair in high pony tails and sometimes forgets about shoes when she isn't brewing. Madame Pinch lets her check out as many books as she wants.

"Are you going home at all this summer?" Snape asks her.

"I hadn't thought about it," she says, stirring a batch of dreamless sleep – dull to brew but meant for the infirmary.

"Do you plan to leave the castle at all?" he prods.

"If I'm in your way, sir, let me know," she says pointedly. He rolls his eyes. She sees him but doesn't care to start a fight.

"Minerva believes you need a vacation," he says. "Please make my life easier and take a few days,"

"Fine," she says. In the morning, she takes a small bag and leaves without saying goodbye. Her parents, she knows, are on holiday in France and so the house is empty. Mostly, she sleeps and watches television.

She does go to see where both Harry and Ron are buried. She leaves flowers and her face is as set as stone. In the morning, the morning she returns to Hogwarts, her picture is on the front page of the Daily Prophet. _Survivors Still Grieving,_ the headline reads. Though it is a wizard photograph, Hermione's likeness hardly moves. At lunch, no one can quite look at her. McGonagall touches her shoulder and Snape reads it right in front of her, holding the paper open and wide. Hermione and Snape do not speak of the war, of their time together in hospital, of the smell, the nightmares, of the loss.

Still, he comes to her quarters later. She's left the door ajar mostly due to laziness and the fact that almost no one but her comes down this far. It is always dark and for once, Hermione wishes for windows, for sunlight.

"Knock, knock," Snape says, but he makes it sound sarcastic somehow.

"Yep," she says, emerging from the back bedroom.

"So, what did you do on _your_ holiday?" he asks.

"Shut up," she says, feeling brave. He almost laughs.

"I'm going to the apothecary," he says. "Would you like to come?"

"Yes," she says. She does. It's nice outside and she is already bored. She puts on some sandals, gathers her wand and some money. They walk to town and it takes almost 30 minutes. Halfway there, he breaks the news.

"I think you should know, the first 'unauthorized' biography of Potter is about to be published," he says.

"What?" she asks. "By who?"

"Rita Skeeter," he says and she groans. "I can only imagine the inaccuracy, but I would…" he pauses, searching for words.

"I'm going to be in it," Hermione supplies.

"Yes, and probably not well,"

"How do you know all this?" she asks. He says nothing. "I guess there isn't much to be done,"

"You could write your own," he offers. But the thought of this makes her chest grow tight, makes color rise in her cheeks, makes her vision swim.

"I can't," she says. He doesn't argue. They have stopped walking and he produces and handkerchief from somewhere. She takes it and presses it against her face; breathes out slowly. "Sorry,"

"Don't be," he says. She offers him back his handkerchief but he shakes his head and she tucks it away. "I wanted you to know,"

"Thanks," she says. "I shouldn't be surprised,"

"Death is always surprising," he says. "Even when it is the most imminent thing in the world,"

The apothecary is cool inside, so cold it makes Hermione shiver and she wraps her arms around herself. It is poorly lit and Snape hands her a basket. She trails him, staying close so he can place items inside. When the basket gets heavy and awkward, he takes it from her so she doesn't have to struggle. She doesn't buy anything – she imagines he gets a budget from the University where she is concerned. He pays and they step back out into the sunshine, and the heat.

"Let's walk," he says. There is always apparating, or a floo from the pub but she doesn't mind being outside. The whole summer is stretched out in front of them. Taking the long way home seems almost mandatory. Still, she is underweight and tired and the walk makes her a little breathless by the end.

"It's nice out," she says. Maybe to make conversation or maybe to avoid headier subjects.

"A little warm," he says, though she knows he means for the raw ingredients in his paper bag.

"I went to the states in the summer once," she says. "When I was a little girl. It was the hottest place I've ever been,"

"Where?" he asks.

"Arizona," she says. "We had relatives out there,"

"What was it like?"

"Dry," she says. "Not like this. Everything was red and barren. We went to see a giant hole in the earth,"

"And which do you prefer? Here or there?" he asks. There were a few months, after the war, where she thought about that giant hole, the canyon, a lot. She thought about going there, crawling inside, letting the earth swallow her.

"I prefer here," she says. "This is the only place left that feels like home,"

H does not seem particularly impressed by her statement but she thinks he probably can't remember what home feels like; perhaps never had such a feeling. She decides to be quiet and there is silence until they reach the castle. She wishes he would say something encouraging, like that she belonged or that she would find her place in the world, but those things are not him, and she tries not to want things she cannot have.

They spend the next few hours sorting out ingredients. Potions is a slow, often tedious process that requires precision but Hermione is all about details so she doesn't mind. They write tiny script on small labels, the chop and funnel and put stoppers into glass jars. Snape does not let Hermione climb high on the ladder in his storage closet, instead she hands him the jars and watches him move up and down, side to side. His hair is getting long and he pushes it out of his eyes several times. She has a bad habit of tugging on her own curls when bored and she is doing it now, waiting for him to climb back down the ladder.

She isn't paying attention, and doesn't see him miss one of the rungs on the ladder. She hears him cry out and then hears the breaking of glass and he comes down on her, hard.

She has lost her wind, and though he scrambles up quickly, she can't move except to gasp.

"Miss Granger, I'm sorry," he says, offering her a hand, but she doesn't take it, just closes her eyes and concentrates. Soon she can breathe again and she sits up.

"Ow," she says.

"I know, I…"

"No, my back," she says. "It's burning," He steps around the debris and peers behind her.

"Merlin," he says. There is glass in her back, cut through her t-shirt and bleeding slowly.

"Ow," she says again. "Ow, ow, what is it?"

"You're cut," he says.

"It burns," she says, a little desperately.

"I can't tell which bottle you landed on," he says. Her skin is reaction to whatever is inside. He pulls her up by her forearms, unwilling to wait for her to accept his help. "Let's go to the infirmary," he says. She walks a little unsteadily, hunched over and struggling to keep up with his long strides. By the time they reach the stairs, her face is bright red and she is sweating, glassy eyed. She is dimly aware of him picking her up, and putting her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The infirmary is bright, clean, well-stocked, and empty. Madame Pomfrey is not there, not in her office and Snape curses. He sets Hermione down on the bed, her face into the pillow. She is awake, but quiet. He runs the tip of his wand from her collar, down past her right shoulder blade and to the bottom. He has cut the shirt and he peels it back, careful not to upset the glass. Underneath the fabric, her skin is angry, raw, and blistered. He is not a medic and doesn't know quite what to do. He floos Minerva who comes through the fireplace and inhales.

"Where the hell is Poppy?" he asks. "What do I do?"

"She's gone," McGonagall says. "We have to get that glass out,"

"So she can bleed to death?" Snape says. They both turn, Hermione is trying to speak.

"What?" Snape leans down, closer to her mouth.

"Hospital," she says again. Snape stands up and feels slightly foolish.

"Are we connected to St. Mungo's?" he asks. McGonagall nods and activates the floo. Hermione is lifted and they step through. The other side is bright and Snape's sleeve is scratching against her skin. She feels naked, bared, and the t-shirt hangs limply from her. She closes her eyes.

When she wakes up, the skin on her back feels tight and itchy. She is wearing a soft, blue gown and is lying in a bed. The sun is bright through the window. She is alone in the room. When she sits up, the skin on her back stretches uncomfortably – it needs lotion, a few more days to reach normalcy. She isn't exactly sure where she is, though she remembers Snape falling, she remembers feeling hot.

She gets out of the bed, find the bathroom. She can't find her clothes, her wand, anything. As soon as she opens the door, though, a nurse comes in and forces her back into bed.

"Where am I? How did I get here? How long?" she asks.

"Why, Professor Snape brought you in from Hogwarts," The nurse is young, and Hermione thinks she may vaguely recognize her, maybe they had briefly gone to school together. Hermione thinks _Hufflepuff_ but she isn't sure.

"He fell," she says.

"I'll let the mediwitch know you're awake," she said, and left. She was poked, prodded, pronounced recovered. Her healer was a tall, narrow woman who smiled down at her.

"Let's get you all checked out," she said. "I'll send the nurse in,"

"I don't… I mean, my wand," she says, confused and feeling hurried.

"Don't worry, dear," she says, and leaves Hermione alone. When the nurse comes in, she is holding a stack of clothing. Hermione takes them.

"These are mine," Hermione says.

"Yes, Professor Snape is waiting for you outside." she says.

Snape says nothing to her when she finally exits her hospital room. She feels sheepish, like the accident was her own fault. And he was going out of his way to fetch her. She signs several forms and they exit the hospital into a narrow alley that leads, she can see, to an abandoned street.

He reaches into his robe and pulls out her wand. She takes it.

"Thanks," she says. She has nowhere to put it – she has been supplied with pants with no pockets and a shirt that covers her back completely, and her arms. She looks at him, about to ask her question, but he answers before she can get the words out.

"You fell onto a bottle of sap from the whomping willow," he says.

"Sap?" she exclaims? "That's hardly dangerous,"

"Sap plus whatever was on the floor," he says. "It's not the cleanest floor and I'm not sure what was there, exactly, but it did a number on you,"

"Scary," she says.

"I've since mopped," he says, dryly. She shakes her head and he stepped closer to her. "Have you ever done a side-by apparation?"

"I can apparate my self," she says.

"You've had a rough couple of days," he says. "I would prefer it this way," She wants to say no, to show that she's fine, an adult, now, but she can't find the energy to argue so she nods. He puts his arm around her shoulder and says,

"Close your eyes,"

It makes a chill rise up her spine but she follows the orders. It is a different sensation than apparating alone. She still feels compressed, as if she were being squeezed through something small, but she knows that she is not alone; she can still feel the pressure of him touching her, the warmth his body radiates. She can smell him.

The feeling passes and when she opens her eyes again, they are just outside Hogwarts and he has already let go of her.

"You should rest," he says. He reaches into his robes and pulls out a paper bag.

"What is this?" she asks, taking it.

"For your back, from the hospital," he says. Inside the castle, he goes upstairs and she goes down. She takes a lukewarm shower and puts on a loose tank top without a bra and some shorts. In the mirror she can sort of see the freshly grown skin, the thin, red lines from where she was cut that will fade in a few days. The lotion helps sooth the discomfort though there are patches she can't reach herself. She tries not to think about how Ron would have gladly done it for her. She misses him, she misses them both. They would have chewed Snape out for causing this mess. If they had been alive.

At her meeting with her weekly advisor, he notes a missing assignment. She asks to see the sheet.

"Professor Snape never gave me this," she murmurs, looking at the dates. "I was in the hospital,"

"Are you all right?" her advisor asks.

"There was an accident in the storeroom, I'm fine," she says. "I can do it this week,"

"Professor Snape is required to inform the University of any accidents for insurance purposes," her advisor says, reaching for her quill.

"It was unrelated to my studies," Hermione says quickly, and maybe it's the truth. She didn't have to go with him to the apothecary, or help him shelve ingredients. "Honestly," she adds.

"Well," her advisor says, unbelievingly. Hermione stares at her unwaveringly until she signs the report and drops it into her outbox where it disappears with an audible pop. "Other than that, your progress is just fine, Miss Granger,"

At the castle, she finds him in the lab.

"You skipped an assignment," she says, and he looks over his shoulder at her. She's back to normal – robes and shoes.

"Did I?" he asks, sounding unconcerned.

"Why didn't you report the accident?" she pushes. He seems reluctant to answer.

"You… are, in many regards, a celebrity, Miss Granger. I tell your advisor, who tells a student or a co-worker, who tells the _Daily Prophet_ who runs a story. You are in the front page, again, and made to relive yet another painful memory," he says.

"Oh," she says. "Thank you, I suppose,"

"You're welcome," he says. "I'll get that assignment,"

The anniversary of the final memorial service, of death, passes and no one says a word. Hermione hardly breathes all day and is on edge, dropping things and knocking over cups of hot tea. She is prone to tears, to anger, to crippling bouts of loneliness. She skips the meals and does her work in silence. Snape doesn't push her, doesn't ask her if she wants to talk, but he doesn't leave her alone. He stays in the lab, he follows her outside to gather, or to the storage room. When she needs to get something from her quarters, he waits outside.

"I'm not going to kill myself," she says, finally.

"Good," he says. "That would be stupid,"

"That's what you think, isn't it? Why you've been hovering all day?"

"No," he says. "Maybe, I don't know what you think about, Hermione."

"What I think about? I think about potions, mostly," she says, angrily.

"You don't ask any questions, you do the minimum." he points out.

"I don't have any questions," she says, low and dangerous.

"Why are you even doing this, then?" he says loudly.

"You asked me!" she says, and then the truth is out. He raises his eyebrows, both of them up toward his hairline. She regrets saying it, regrets giving him any more power.

"You could have said no," he says, very quietly.

"I don't know," she says. She doesn't think that she could have said no because it would have left her in limbo, floating around with no purpose, with nothing to do. "I didn't, so, let's forget about it,"

"If you need to take the rest of the summer, start up again in the fall…" he begins.

"I don't need time!" she says, her voice loud in the dark hallway. "I've had time, time doesn't… it doesn't help,"

"Doing a half-assed job won't help you either," Snape says. Hermione is surprised at the harshness of his words. She feels like he has slapped her. Her cheeks are red.

"I know," she says, chastised. "I just… this wasn't how it was supposed to be,"

"It never is," he says. "Come on,"

They walk back to the lab together and she feels tired, drained, unenthusiastic.

"Can I ask you something?" she says. It is a question that has been floating around her mind for some time now, something she has yet to openly ask.

"Honestly, I'm beginning to wish you would… though I don't doubt the possibility of regret," he says.

"Why did you… you know?" she says. She is hoping that he does know because she doesn't want to say it.

"Take an extremely painful curse meant for you?" he asks. She nods. "Well, why did you abandon your post to make sure I lived?"

"Because you saved me," she says, simply.

"And I saved you because you were my charge," he says.

"Your charge?" she asks, surprised and a little offended. "You were assigned to me?"

"Each order member was to look after a student," he says neutrally.

"What did you do to get saddled with me?" she asks. He shakes his head. "So bad it cannot be uttered?"

"No. I chose you," he says, holding open the door for her. She stopped and he had to nudge her through.

"Why?" she asks. He ignores her and moves to his cauldron that has been left unattended for too long. It is overheated, too thick, and he banishes the cauldron. "Professor,"

"Enough, for today," he says, his back to her, his shoulders hunched like their conversation has drained him. She doesn't argue; she leaves him.

School starts again. Hermione receives letters from her parents weekly, one from each of them, and her father's have become apologetic. She has not seen them since he asked her to leave – a year and some days. They beg for a visit, even if on neutral ground and so on the first weekend after the term begins, before she is inundated with papers to grade and work of her own, she agrees. She does not punish them further, though. She apparates to Diagon Alley and takes the underground and they meet her at the station with the car. It is Saturday morning, before the real first chill and people are everywhere. She struggles to find them in the car. She has worn jeans, and a thin sweater and her hair whips around her in the wind.

She sees them, at last, with pinched faces and beige clothing. They look plain, drab, and she realizes that she has outgrown them. It was, ironically, what they had wanted in the first place but her reluctance to meet them has blinded them to this fact. Her mother hugs her loosely and her father smiles, but does not touch her. They see her as a rare bird that they do not want to startle into flight.

The car ride is terse and they take her to a restaurant that is close to the station. She feels underdressed but doesn't argue. She has not brought any extra clothes because she does not plan to stay. They know about her studies, and the teaching. She writes tersely about meeting with her advisor every week, about her responsibilities at Hogwarts, but never about Snape.

She orders a salad and listens to her parents try to fill the silence with stories of patients, of their last vacation, of the neighbors. Finally, her father says what he has wanted to say.

"We just wanted to you to get back on your feet. We never meant to hurt you," he says.

"I am on my feet," she says. "I've done what you wanted," Her voice is cold, even to her own ears. She loves them, but she can no longer relate to them. They look like a wizard photograph when she leaves them – waving the same wave over and over again.

End of Part One

a/n: thanks for reading. part two to come... eventually.


	2. Moving Forward

Snape's sabbatical is an excuse to get out of the castle for awhile. McGonagall does not question his request for some time off, does not complain about his need to leave in the middle of the term. It has taken him a while to heal – he'd stayed in the hospital for a few days with only one visitor.

When the portrait of Dumbledore finally, irreversibly comes to life, he knows he has to go.

Spinner's End is a dark, dilapidated house that is, for most of the days of the year, practically unlivable. So of course, it is where Snape has holed himself up. Mostly, he sleeps. Before he'd left Hogwarts, McGonagall had cornered him with one, final question.

"Who am I supposed to get to teach your courses this late in the year?" she demanded. Snape had been thinking about that – he had just the person in mind.

Some days, he regrets Hermione's increasingly extensive involvement in his life. He regrets dragging her back into a world she was so obviously trying to escape – but some days, she thrills him. She does something amazing in the lab, or she takes his research in an entirely new direction, one he would never have thought of himself. It is Hermione, and it isn't.

When she was his student, he would have given anything for her to be the way she is now. She is quiet, subtle, and solemn. She does not wave her arm in the air, unable to contain her excitement or her knowledge. She does not chatter; she does not inundate him with questions. She does not fight back and, yet, he knows that it isn't her. He knows that she is Hermione with a big missing piece. She is the wreckage of what she once was – a empty, gaping hole. But he does not know how to right her.

When she returns from her visit with her parents, she is quiet. He does not expect to see her until morning – maybe until Monday but when he enters the lab he now shares with her, she is there sitting on the wooden stool she prefers with her back to him.

"You're back early," he says and he startles her – she jumps a little and shoots him a look.

"I wasn't aware I was on a timetable," she says venomously, and he knows she is trying to pick a fight. He doesn't want to fight with her – in fact she is the only person he feels even slightly inclined to be nice to.

"Fine," he says and turns to go.

"Wait, I'm sorry," she says. "I just… this is your lab, I'll leave."

"No one has to leave," he says, and closes the door. His station is a mess – he has left it that way but now the sight of the clutter annoys him. He begins to straighten things – closes books and stacks cauldrons. "Do you want to talk about it?" he says, finally.

She is sitting there, doing nothing, watching him, brooding.

"Did you ever outgrow your family?" she asks.

"That implies that I ever fit in at all," he says, honestly. "But yes, there seemed a time when going back was an unnecessary burden."

"When Harry and Ron died, I went home," she says and she flinches at the sound of her own voice saying their names but she continues. "After a while they kicked me out – told me to, basically, get my life back in order."

"And then you came here?" Snape asks.

"Sort of," she say. "I kind of wallowed for a bit. In some ways, maybe I am still wallowing."

"I wallowed, too," he admits. "It's part the healing process."

"I want to be done with this part now," she says, dropping her head into her arms. Her spine a curves against her sweater and it looks painful. Part of him wants to touch it, to lay his palm against the horizon of her back but he instead tucks his hands into his robes.

"You need to do something fun," Snape says, suddenly. She looks up at him with narrowed eyes.

"What do you know about fun?" she asks, snidely. He ignores the jab.

"Oh come on, Miss Granger, even I know how to have a good time. If we're going to wallow, we should do so properly."

"Now?" she asks, surprised.

"Now," he says. "Come on, get your cloak." He can see that it is hanging by the door and he's pleased he doesn't have to wait around for her. This is the first good idea he has had in ages. He feels like getting into trouble.

"Don't you have rounds?" she asks.

"We're skiving all responsibilities for tonight," he announces and this makes her smile. Getting into trouble isn't her strong suit, perhaps, but there is an air of safety as long as he is along for the ride. If they are caught, they both know that Snape will take the brunt of the punishment. Outside is dark, and the castle glows with a golden warmth. Through windows they can see figures moving. It is after dinner but before curfew – the student don't have a lot of free time and weekends are always busy.

It's still chilly out and Hermione holds her cloak closer to her as they head for the back gate, behind the green houses at the edge of the forest. They are swift and silent – neither wish to get caught by student or professor. Hagrid's hut remains empty and dark but Hermione makes no outward sign of acknowledgment for which Snape is glad. Outside the gates they both stop and Hermione steps close to him. He looks down at her.

"I don't know where you're taking me," she says and he realizes she expects another side by side apparation. He had been planning on walking but it is dark and cold so instead he puts his arm across her shoulder and closes his eyes.

It is not the best manners in the world to apparate into the middle of a busy street but no one says anything when they appear in front of the Three Broomsticks.

"Here?" she says, surprised.

"When is the last time you got nice and pissed?" he asks, opening the door for her. It is busy, full of people and she shakes her head.

"I rarely drink," she says, raising her voice to compensate for the noise. He can't say this is a surprising confession. Two wizards step away from a table and he points her to it. She snags it and pushes their empty mugs to the edge. He steps to the bar and orders two lagers. The glasses are frosty and the lager spills over onto his hands as he sets them on the table and sits across from her.

"Here," he says. "The faster the better." He hasn't had a nice lager in sometimes and it feels refreshing and clean as he swallows it. She takes a small sip and makes a face.

"This is vile," she says.

"Lies," he replies. "What do you usually drink?"

"Vodka," she says. "Sometimes rum."

"Well drink this and then you can have whatever you want," he promises and she does as she is told, downing the lager without breath so as not to taste it. The pub is warm and crowded and her cheeks take on some color. She pushes the glass to him and he has to laugh a little. "Vodka and what?"

"Cranberry," she says. The drink comes back almost pink and he can imagine her with this sort of thing in her hand, in her system. While she looks the other way, he sips it and it's not that bad, really. This drinks goes down her throat much more easily and he can see its effects in almost no time. He finishes his drink and then orders another round. After an hour, she has gone to the loo three times and is no longer sober. Snape is a man who can hold his alcohol but they are drinking fast and without food or water and even he has begun to feel that slow warmth spreading through him.

"Do you feel better?" he asks. She nods, but doesn't bother to string together any words. He too has switched to a harder alcohol – whiskey, which he let her try. Not only did she make the same distasteful face but she spit it out, right back into his glass. He'd been tempted to drink it anyway, but had ordered again. "Do you want another?"

"I don't think so," she says. "I feel kind of woozy."

"But better," he says.

"Do you think we're breaking any rules? I mean, you are my professor." Her words are slow, deliberate, like she has to think about them very hard before she lets them out of her mouth.

"That's the good thing about independent study. They can't see us," he says. "Sometimes you have to be a little naughty, Hermione."

"I know how to be naughty," she says, easily. She doesn't look away and her eyes are dark and steady as she looks at him. Suddenly the room gets loud, small, and too warm. Snape knows that he is treading dangerous waters. Hermione is his student as she so recently reminded him and drinks are one thing. But he is curious to see how far she will take it.

"When have you ever been naughty?" he teases, his lip curling into a wicked smile.

"I lost my virginity in the Hogwarts library," she says carelessly and he chokes on his drink – spends several moments coughing liquid from his lungs. She seems smug and doesn't offer to slap his back or get him water. She just keeps that glassy, unwavering stare.

"I don't need to hear about any of the Weasley's sexual exploits – not even the late Weasley," he says.

"It wasn't Ron," she says, laughing. "That's funny. Ron in the library." She shakes her head.

"Then who?" he asks, his curiosity and the alcohol making his tongue loose.

"None of your business, Snape," she says and runs her finger around the rim of her empty glass. He snaps his fingers.

"Krum," he says, smugly but she shakes her head. "No?" he asks. "Can't I have a hint?"

"It was one of yours," she says, changing her mind and motioning to the bar tender for a final refill. It's getting late and this will have to be their last. The pub is emptying and the round comes quickly. She takes a healthy drink.

"A Slytherin?" he exclaims. The very idea makes him undo his top button. She looks delighted at his reaction. "Don't make me beg," he pleads.

"Blaise," she says.

"No," Snape says, smiling. "Why?"

"He was very… smart," she says, shrugging. "Though if I dare make a broad generalization, Slytherin men are as selfish in the proverbial bedroom as they are in other aspects of life." This is a declaration of war, a challenge issued and he thinks about kissing her but he knows, even through this haze, that he shouldn't.

"Not true," he merely says, finishing the drink and slowly standing. She watches him walk to the bar to close the tab. He meets her by the door and it only takes a few steps before he has to offer her his arm. She has a serious case of the giggles which only makes him shake his head. "What is so funny?"

"I'm DRUNK with SNAPE!" she says and then bursts into fresh peals. Her laughter is a nice change and he is still warm despite the cold air. It's going to be a long walk and while apparation is nice, splinching is not.

"Is that so wrong?" he asks.

"No," she says, sighing. "It's nice." She leans against him and looks up at the stars while they walk. He uses his wand to light their path and the light bobs along in front of them. "I feel happy," she says.

"Me too," he agrees.

"Do you think Harry would be mad at me if I moved on with my life?" she asks, stopping and looking at him intently. "Or Ron?"

"No," he says, sincerely. "I think that it's your duty to move on." She nods, as if his words are all the permission she needs. They start to walk but she stumbles once, then again.

"I don't think I can make it," she says, laughing. "I'm sleepy."

"All right," he says and does something he has not done since he was a teenager. He bends his knees and reaches his arms back. "Hop on."

"Are you crazy?" she asks, shaking her head. "There's no way."

"Unless you want something from the forest to eat you in the night, I suggest you get on," he says and she giggles and hops onto his back. Her arms worm their way around his neck and he hooks his arm under her knees. She is lighter than he expected and she rests her chin on his shoulder.

"Thank you," she says, her voice suddenly very serious. "For everything."

By the time they make it to the castle, his arms are aching and all he can think about is falling into bed and sleeping off a potential hangover. When he opens the door, however, he can see a knot of professors speaking in worried tones near the hourglasses. At the sight of them, Snape drops Hermione to the floor and she grunts and looks around sleepily.

"We're back," she says, a little loudly. Everyone scatters except for McGonagall who marches towards them. "Uh oh," Hermione says.

"Indeed," he whispers.

"Severus," she cries, her voice shrill. "It is one in the morning, where in Merlin's name have you two been?"

"We were..." Hermione says, but Snape sticks his elbow into her side and she closes her mouth.

"It's late," Snape says, smoothly. "We lost track of the time."

"You had responsibilities!" McGonagall says. "I demand to know where you went!"

"Miss Granger and I went to town for…" He falters and she picks up his slack.

"Research," she says, but it sounds more like a question and he grimaces.

"Good heavens, have you two been… you're drunk!" she says.

"No," Snape says, immediately.

"A little," Hermione concedes, at the same time.

"Stop helping," Snape snaps.

"I can't lie to her," Hermione says, honestly. "Sorry."

"Go to bed, both of you," McGonagall says disgustedly. "We'll deal with this in the morning."

Snape takes her elbow and pulls her toward the stairs and they are laughing again as they descend unsteadily. When they reach her door she hiccups and covers her mouth with her hand. Her eyes are wide. He pulls the hand away.

"You needed to go upstairs," she comments and he shrugs. "I stole your rooms," she says, demurely.

"Yes," he agrees. "In a way."

"Why did you never want them back?" she asks, finally negotiating the door open and entering. He lingers at the door way and only follows her when she waves him in. She sits on the couch with a thump of exhaustion.

"I liked the idea of you sleeping in my bed," he says. The words have escaped him without much thought and he is immediately embarrassed but she just looks pleased.

"My, my," she says, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. Her neck is long, arched, and pale against the dark leather. He knows he should leave but he can't bring himself to find the door, to move his legs, to exit. Finally he sits next to her and she sighs, rolls her head so it is against his shoulder. Danger, his mind screams.

"Hermione, I have to go," he says after a small silence.

"No," she says. "Stay." Her voice is thick and tired and completely endearing.

"You won't feel this way for long," he says. "In a few hours I will be your lecherous professor once again."

"You're wrong," she says, rubbing her cheek into his shoulder. "I only feel better when I am with you." As much as he longs to stay, to put his arm around her shoulder, to press his lips against her skin, he cannot. She is not of right mind and he will not be another bad thing that happens to her.

"Goodnight," he says and stands up. She sits up and watches him go to the door. He turns the handle, he opens the door, he steps out.

"Goodnight," she echoes, but she sounds disappointed.

With the morning comes a sense of mortification and a headache. It is early, it is the seven o'clock bells that have forced him into consciousness. His mouth feels dry and a shower doesn't help very much. Though he longs to put off the inevitable for as long as possible, he goes to see McGonagall before breakfast.

"You fool," she snaps as soon as he walks into the office.

"I may have made a bad decision," he says, "I was just trying to make her feel better."

"Since when do you care about anyone's feelings?" McGonagall asks, harshly.

"That isn't fair," he says, tiredly.

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to do with you," McGonagall says. "Getting drunk with your student isn't in the handbook."

"Technically she's my apprentice," he offers but the only one who appreciates semantics is Dumbledore's portrait who chuckles behind them.

"You're confined to the grounds for the rest of the week, you can double your rounds, and I don't want you seeing her except for lab time," McGonagall says.

"I'm not a teenager," Snape says, a little shocked.

"Then don't act like one!"

Dumbledore laughs at this, too.

"Fine," Snape says and turns on his heel to leave. Hermione is waiting outside looking worse than he feels. She looks at him, and then looks away, slipping past him into the office. At least it is Sunday, there are no classes to teach. It's Hermione's day off, his own, and he spends the day in his room grading papers and being alone.

On Monday, they have two hours scheduled in the lab and she is already there waiting when he arrives. She is back to her proper self – high necked robes and a bun. She is writing in her notebook with a quill and there is a smear of ink on her thumb and a streak of chalk on her left sleeve.

"Good afternoon," he says and she nods. Her cauldron is already on a low heat. She has started without him. "Anything you need me to look at?" he asks.

"Maybe in a bit," she says, and turns a page in her notebook.

"Miss Granger, I'm sorry that I got you into trouble," he says because the air needs to be cleared. She turns to him and smiles softly.

"I believe you're worse off than I am," she says.

"Double rounds is the worst of it," he admits. "And yourself?"

"A stern talking to about morality and reputation," she says and shakes her head. "Don't worry, Professor. I'm not mad. Embarrassed, maybe, but it was fun and I don't regret going." He is embarrassed too and wishes that neither of them could remember what was said but it is obvious that they both do, clearly.

"Well," he says. "I have plenty to do so if you need me I'll just be…" he trails off and she nods, already looking back to her own work. When the two hours are up, she puts away her things and leaves.

Occasionally, he steps into one of the classes to observe her when she teaches. When he lectures he is a stationary object, a shadow by the blackboard or behind the projector but she is alive. She moves through the stations and across the front of the room; her hands flit like birds above her head. His presence does not distract her – instead she tends to embrace him. She poses questions and when she is met with uneasy silence, she says, "What do you think, Professor Snape?"

Sometimes he has an answer for her and sometimes he does not. She does not bark orders at them – she uses a different technique. She makes them feel guilty when they do not do their reading. She gives them such a look of disappointment that they slink down low into their chairs. It is a woman's technique and one he cannot copy. Generally he does not stay until the end of the class. Instead he excuses himself silently and slips out into the hall, away from the dungeons. He fills out an evaluation of her once a month on a form that the University sends him. He puts her name on the top and then "evaluates her progress." He always gives her high marks. Her work is good, her progress steady. The only part of the form that consistently stumps him is the last part where it simply says, _additional comments_. Usually he leaves this part blank. Today he writes: _She likes to teach_. He feels like he should maybe say more, but instead he puts the form in an envelope and drops some wax on the loose flap. His seal is an S and he stamps it in efficiently.

Hermione has two more years of this program before she can earn her degree in Advanced Potions. By the end of her time, she will have spent nearly a solid decade studying at Hogwarts. Snape, of all people, knows how easily the castle traps people and keeps them locked within the walls. When she is about to leave for her advisory meeting on campus, he stops her in the front hall just before she goes.

"Miss Granger," he calls and she stops, waits for him to catch up.

"You just caught me," she says, glancing at her wrist watch.

"I just wanted to remind you that the university's fiscal year is drawing to a close," Snape says. "You have the choice of continuing your independent study or starting the new year as a regular student on campus."

"Really?" she says.

"I just wanted you to think about it so you can inform your advisor of your choice," he says.

"Thank you," she says. "I will consider that."

When she is gone, he goes down to their lab. Evidence of her is everywhere. There is her station with her working potions and ingredients, her quill with the red feather; a bottle of water. In the one, narrow and short window that let in only a square of sunlight, she has placed a potted plant on the sill. A purple flower blooms and when he had raised his eyebrow at her, she'd claimed she needed some color, some life in the room.

Now he pours some water into the little plant and wonders if she will indeed spend her second year away from him. At first he is certain she will not but by the time the dinner bells begin to peal, he isn't certain at all. She is not back by dinner and so he sits alone, an empty chair beside him.

"Where is Miss Granger, tonight?" Filius asks him and he can only shrug and shake his head.

"Out," he says. Halfway through the meal she appears looking hurried and apologetic.

"Sorry," she says, seating herself. "I went into a bookstore and then completely lost track of time."

"I see," he says. She piles food on her plate and begins to eat. "You forced me to speak to Filius," he says, lowering his voice.

"Unforgivable of me," she teases. "But at least you know my absence improves your social skills."

"Does this mean you'll be leaving next year?" he asks, suddenly sad. He should have, could have kept his mouth closed.

"Of course not," she says. "And leave you here alone?"

"I was here many years before you came and will be here after you go," he reminds her.

"Do you think I should reconsider my decision?" she asks; her fork stops in midair. She looks surprised and unexcited.

"No," he says. "I don't."

"Why is McGonagall giving you such a dirty look?" she asks, peering past him.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you outside of the lab," he admits, relief loosening his tongue.

"Seriously?" she asks, shaking her head. "Power has gone to her head."

"Ha," he says.

"Surely meal times aren't off limit as well," she says. It's late in the meal now and over half of the students have cleared the room. Even the staff is beginning to finish their tea and move on.

"I have rounds," he says, bitterly.

"I'll come along," she says carelessly tossing her napkin down onto the remains of her dinner. "I wanted to talk to you about my summer session anyhow." He glances over to McGonagall's empty chair but suddenly realizes that he doesn't give a flying bat what she thinks about him or Hermione.

"Okay," he says. Rounds before curfew consist of very little. Sometimes they break up fights, but usually anything of any interest happens after everyone is supposed to be in bed. They walk in a circle around each floor in a predictable pattern that allows any student to leave for before the professors reach any given room. Both Snape and Hermione are aware of this. She tells him about her idea for a summer project but her idea is not yet concrete and she speaks vaguely.

"You don't have to stay here all summer," he says. She looks at him apologetically.

"You have plans don't you? It was stupid of me to assume that you would just stay here all summer teaching me, I'm sorry," she says.

"That's not what I meant," he says. She is always apologizing to him and he doesn't like it. "I haven't decided if I want to leave the castle or not."

"Oh," she says. They are quiet and when they stumble across a first year Hufflepuff crying alone in a study room, Hermione steps away from him to speak with the child. He is her student, too young for Snape to teach and he is suddenly grateful that Hermione has accompanied him. He stands a few meters away and watches her speak to the boy. Her tone is hushed and he suddenly throws his arms around Hermione and renews his weeping.

"I'll see you later, Professor," she says, dismissing him from the awkward situation. He nods and leaves her to finish his rounds alone.

There are days when Snape barely sees Hermione at all. Days when she cancels their lab time together to work on grading papers. Days when he skips breakfast and she skips dinner and their paths simply don't cross. Lately, it has been this way. The students are gearing up for their final exams and in turn the professors are loading them up with extra review work. Hermione, of course, has her own test to study for, one that he prepares but she actually sits at the university. She opts to take it on a Saturday and while she is gone doing this, Snape does something underhanded, something slightly wrong.

He sneaks into her rooms.

He isn't proud of himself as he easily cracks her wards. They aren't difficult and she has lowered them plenty of times in front of him. It's not like she's working to keep him out, he argues to himself. The door opens and he looks around. These rooms haven't been his for months and months, but there are things he misses like the large bed, the bathroom, the built in bar that is now not only not stocked but full of books. It smells different though. It smells clean and lightly floral – it smells like woman. Her desk is piled with scrolls of mediocre essays and he carefully clears them off to find what he is looking for – her day planner. Inside he flips to the upcoming summer months to see if she has in fact planned anything but the squares are blank of her handwriting. Impulsively, he flips to the beginning of the next year.

In the square of the ninth she has written _Severus_. His first name, the name his mother gave him, is seldom spoken except by people he is indifferent to – Minerva and other professors and colleagues. There is no one in his life whom he wants to call him Severus… except maybe Hermione. Here she has done it and he feels a little lighter because of it. She does not say the name to his face, but she thinks it. Feeling emboldened by this, he takes a quill and flips back to the month of July. Across the second week he draws an arrow and writes in the first square _Potions Conference_. He has signed them both up. He wonders when she'll notice.

It doesn't take long. They are a few hours into a marathon brewing session that neither wish to be participating in but it is an important part of her curriculum. During a lull she turns to him.

"You don't sneak in and watch me sleep or anything, do you?" she asks.

"What?" he asks.

"My planner," she says. He has to smile a little instead of giving in to the embarrassment of something that may have turned out to be a bad idea.

"No, I'm not secretly stalking you," he promises.

"You could have just told me," she says.

"I could have," he says. "Are you angry?"

"No, of course not," she says. "I'm excited, actually."

"Good," he says.

"Where is it?" she asks but he shakes his head.

"It's a surprise," he says. She doesn't beg or plead for the information. She just turns away with a small, secret smile.

Three days before they are schedules to leave Hermione doesn't come to breakfast. This is pretty normal for the summer months but when she doesn't come to lunch either he is worried. He goes to check on her in the early afternoon, knocking loudly on her door and then letting himself in when she does not respond.

"Miss Granger?" he calls into the empty living room. There is no answer but he can hear vague noises from the bedroom where the door is open. He walks toward the door and then notices something out of place on the floor in front of him. It is a page from a book, torn from the spine. He leans down and picks it up – he scans it. It is immediately clear what it is – Hermione's name jumps out several times on the page and on the top header it reads _Rita Skeeter_. It is the biography he had warned her about.

"Miss Granger," he says again, loudly.

"Go away," she says, and her voice sounds shaky and wet. He looks into the bedroom. She is sitting on the bed with the book around in her pieces. There are pages and the spine has been broken and torn apart. She is on the bed in nothing but a pair of cotton shorts and a white tank top. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her face is buried in them. She is crying.

"I'm sorry," he says. The book isn't even due to come out for another two weeks. "How did you get this?"

"A gift from the author," she manages, looking up at him. Her face is swollen and red. Her eyes are wet and he has to glance away for a moment. He is immediately irate.

"A talentless whore who publishes lies," he snaps and she looks up. His words are harsh but she doesn't correct him. "Anyone with half a brain won't believe a word."

"Don't lie to me," she says. He takes a step toward her and perches gently on the edge of the mattress. Her face scrunches up again, like she is trying to hold back a sob and she launches into his arms just the way the Hufflepuff girl had clung to her on their rounds that night. No one has ever cried on his shoulder before so he mimics her actions. He puts his arms around her and rubs a small circle onto her shoulder blade. Her grip is tight and he can feel her trembling. Her face is hot and there is moisture against his neck.

"It's all right," he says. Maybe it isn't all right. Maybe she won't ever get over the death of her friends and maybe everyone will think she spent her time as Harry Potter's puppet but at the moment he will say anything in the world to make her feel better. "Shh," he says and tightens his grip. Minutes pass and when she finally pulls back, she looks embarrassed. He reaches out and brushes his thumb across her jaw where several drops of water threaten to fall.

"Why did you choose me?" she asks.

"What?" he asks.

"At the battle?"

"Miss Granger," he begins, looking for a way out.

"And again, to teach your classes. And a third time, to become your student again. And now, you're taking me to this conference," she points out. Her voice is thick and low with tears and it makes him uncomfortable in the quiet, airless room.

"I don't know," he says, honestly.

"Do you feel sorry for me?" she asks, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"No," he says. "Maybe I did at first but I think you'll be fine."

"I take up all of your time," she says.

"No," he says.

"You must be tired of me," she says.

"Never," he says. She looks at him with that same, unsettling gaze and leans forward a little.

"You are a stranger to me, sometimes," she says. "You are not the same man I saved that day."

"I am a better man," he whispers.

"What if I never get over this?" she asks, picking up the cover. Harry's green eyes stare back at him but there is no life. It is a still picture of a dead man. He wants to kiss her. But there are so many reasons not to. She is his student as well as his colleague. She is young and depressed. If it doesn't work out, she will still have a long way to go with him before leaving the castle.

At the same time, he can smell her she is so close and the warm room makes him dizzy, the gentle swell of her breast encased in white cloth is alluring. He needs to leave the room.

"Severus," she says, and his eyes snap up to meet hers. "Given the chance, would you save me again?"

"I don't…" he shakes his head. "Stop this."

She looks hurt and he can see her draw into herself again.

"I'm sorry," she says. He stands because he needs some distance between them but at the doorway he sighs.

"You saved me too, you know," he says. "You don't need a savior, Hermione, you need an equal." He lets himself out of the room to the sounds of her renewed tears.

That night, in bed, he cannot sleep. It's too hot. His sheets itch and he kicks off all his linens. When he closes his eyes, he slips into inappropriate dreams and fantasies and wakes up covered with sweat and soaked in frustration. She has poisoned him.


	3. A Slow Burn

"Now will you tell me where we're going?" Hermione asks, watching him point his wand at her luggage.

"Don't you trust me?" he says, picking up her small suitcase and slipping it into his pocket with his own.

"I'd like to," she says, softly and he looks over at her sharply. Things have been not the same between them. Hermione knows they are both lingering in a place of confusion. She pushed him too far the other night; she has asked too much of him. She plans to give him space this week, to let him call the shots. Her feelings for Snape are indefinable and somewhat ambiguous. The moment he stepped in front of that curse, something changed. It hasn't yet stopped changing. In some ways he has helped her out of a dark place, given her a new life but in other ways, he is a crutch, someone she is clinging desperately to.

"We're going abroad," he says. This peaks her interest. "Have you ever traveled abroad magically?"

"No," she says. "Why?"

"It isn't really safe to apparate such a distance," he says. "We'll have to portkey."

"I've used a portkey before," she says.

"Several," he says.

"Oh," she says. "How many?"

"Four," he says, "To get to where we need to go." She looks nervous – is nervous but she holds back. She decides to trust him, to follow him, to take his word. Now, when they apparate somewhere, she allows him to hug her to him and take the lead. It is simply easier than negotiating areas and timing. It is the way that married people travel, the way that couples stand close and disappear.

When they arrive at the first location, she comments that it's like an airport. Snape tells her that he's never been on an airplane before. This place is alive with people and signs point him toward different portkeys. These are not meant to be inconspicuous because they are not hidden within muggle society. Instead they are nothing more than big, metal squares large enough for several people to touch at once. Above each portkey, a clock ticked away the time until departure. She sees a crowd of people disappear as the clock above them runs out. An employee walks over and replaces the portkey. He resets the clock and it begins to count down the half hour.

"Don't stare," Snape says jovially and she glares at him. He enjoys taking her to new places, showing her new things, she knows this. He likes her new sense of wonder.

"Where are we going?" she says, feeling like a broken record but she simply cannot contain herself.

"First? New York," he says.

"The states?" she exclaims, pleased.

"The states," he says. "It's going to be extremely disorienting for you so you must not let go of me, all right?"

"Okay," she says, the first flutter of nerves rising in her stomach. He leads her to the correct station with nine or ten other weary looking travelers. There isn't much time. They show their passports and place a hand on the cool, metal box. She stands close to him but he doesn't put his arm across her shoulder like he does when they apparate. Instead, he takes her hand in his own. Their fingers web. It's startling but she squeezes tightly. He has warned her to hold on, and she will.

When the time runs out, she is jerked up and they are spinning, whirling through the air. The only constant is his hand in hers and she closes her eyes against the overwhelming sight. It is longer than any portkey she has ever traveled by. It seems to go on for minutes, for hours. She thinks it will never stop.

Finally instead of spinning, she is falling and when they land, she hits with an umph. She would have been sprawled out on the ground if not for him, but he is bracing her, allowing her to lean against him, allowing him to bear the brunt of her weight.

"You all right?" he asks softly and she looks up and around. He seems perfectly fine and the other people have already straightened up and moved along.

"Wow," she says. "Yeah."

"Only three more of those," he says, and she is immediately glad she skipped any sort of meal.

"Where is the next one to, Mars?" she asks sarcastically.

"New York to Chicago, Chicago to Denver, Denver to Santa Fe," he says.

"Where the hell is Santa Fe?" she asks.

"New Mexico, Miss Granger. I see geography is not one of your plethora of talents," he says.

"New Mexico," she says, to herself.

"You like the desert, I thought," he says.

"I do," she amends, "Thought I only manage to visit in the hottest times of the year."

"That's why we have cooling charms," he says, walking toward their next destination.

"You're really charming today, you know that?" she says, warningly. He chooses not to respond, wisely she thinks. Each trip is a little more tolerable and when they finally get there, she feels relieved, though she is not keen on figuring out what she looks like. He walks a half step ahead of her and she has to hustle to keep up with his long strides. She is easily distracted by the new settings, and here outside the windows is vast nothingness – miles of red dirt and sad looking shrubs. But the sky, the sky is wide and bright and blue. She thinks it's beautiful.

"Is the convention here every year?" she asks. She knows he didn't attend the previous year and she wonders if she is the only motivation – if he signed them up because he thought it would please her.

"No, but this is a good location. The lack of humidity shortens most brewing time," he says. It's an interesting fact and she considers it for a while. They stand in line to floo to the hotel and she is tired and feels windblown and dirty so she lets the conversation lag. Magical travel is efficient if not comfortable. They move from building to building without ever stepping foot outside, interfering with the muggle world. She listens around them and hears clipped, American accents. They stand out in their thick robes, their dark colors. People here are wearing either muggle clothes or casual, summer robes that are loose fitting and light. Snape doesn't seem to care much about his surroundings and when they reach the hotel, it is much the same. She stays in the waiting area while he deals with checking in and only when he motions for her does she follow him to the lifts.

"Is everything all right?" she asks and he nods. He seems tired too, but hands her a folder containing a schedule for the next four days, information about the hotel, and a nametag with her name and University of Magic and Casting, London printed in bold letters. It's a little disorienting – though she visits there weekly, she hardly feels like a student. Snape inspects his nametag as well, and his says Hogwarts on it. She is slightly, irrationally jealous. He also hands her a key. Their rooms are on the third floor and are next to each other. When Hermione opens her door, she sees that there is a connecting door. This makes her blush and she doesn't open it. Only a few seconds later he knocks and is holding her suitcase, already returned to it's normal size.

"Thank you," she says, allowing him to enter and set it on the luggage rack.

"We have several hours before the introductory meal," he says. "What would you like to do?"

"Lunch," she says, immediately and he agrees. "Why don't you give me twenty minutes?" she asks and he goes back to his own room, through the hall door, ignoring the existence of the door that connects them. She takes a fast shower and pins her hair back tightly. It's going to be unbearable in this heat, in this weather but she resigns herself to this. She puts on shorts and a nice shirt and tries to look like she isn't totally out of place though her pale, delicate English skin is a dead giveaway before she even opens her mouth.

He is ready when she is and looks practically the same though he has discarded his over coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His hair still hangs in his face and he looks particularly sallow in the sunshine. She decides to keep these observations to herself. In the lobby of the hotel there is a diner, and a few people sitting in booths and at tables. They are seated and order from a young waitress who writes with a muggle pen on a pad of paper, though Hermione can see her wand in her apron. It's thick and not very long, and Hermione tries not to judge people by their wands, but it's hard. When Snape orders, she says,

"You here for the convention?" and Hermione says yes before Snape can say something rude.

"That will be all," he says, low. The waitress leaves and Hermione gives him a patient look.

"Are you upset?" she asks.

"No," he responds. "I'm always this way."

"Not with me," she reminds him. "Come on, I brought the schedule along, why don't you tell me about all of this?" She pushes the piece of paper toward him and he takes it from her, glancing at it.

"Mostly it's lecture and panels," he says. "Potion Masters presenting papers and giving demonstrations." He points to two of the scheduled events. "These two are lectures on theory, and this on native ingredients," She knows all of this but she is letting him speak, letting him find his comfort zone. When their food comes, they eat companionably. It is not good food, but her level of hunger doesn't allow for pickiness. When it is time to pay, Snape pulls out money that looks completely foreign. It isn't pounds, dollars, or galleons.

"American Wizarding money?" she asks and he nods, tossing a few bills down. She wants to reach out and inspect it but doesn't bother. "I didn't even ask how much this is costing," she says.

"You're being sponsored by UMCL and getting credit, so don't feel obligated to pay for anything," he says. After the meal, they go back to their rooms and have a lie in. She sleeps fitfully, hovering just on the edge of consciousness. It is not a restful break and when it is time to get up and dress for dinner, she is cranky. Snape takes one look at her in the hallway and says nothing, remains silent. He pulls out her chair for her at dinner. Several people greet him in a variety of accents and he always introduces her as his apprentice. Some people stare for a beat too long – they know who she is. Some people don't, people from the Americas, people who look like they never leave the lab long enough to purchase a newspaper. No one says anything to her, though. These are well-mannered, academic people and she has Snape as a bodyguard. Snape speaks to the others at their table during the meal. She hears him tell people he is not presenting a paper several times.

"Have you ever?" she asks him, softly.

"Presented? Yes," he says. "I don't like to do it, but it's part of the lifestyle."

"I wish you were," she says. "I wish I could see that."

"You'll have your fill of stuffy people reading dry papers by the end of this," he assures her.

"You're not stuffy," she says, offended on his behalf.

"I am, and so are you, Miss Granger," he says, but she thinks he is teasing. After dinner, they file into the first lecture and parts of it are dry, but over all she is fascinated. She takes notes on her folder with the pen from her hotel room.

That night, she does something she hasn't in a long time. She has a nightmare. By the time she wakes up, the details of the nightmare are gone but she is sitting up in bed, covered in sweat, sobbing, and the fear is so real. It takes her several moments to realize that he is there, Snape, holding on to her shoulders speaking to her.

"What?" she says, finally, because she can't understand him.

"You're all right," he says, again and she understands what has happened. He is kneeling on the bed in front of her, bare-chested with only his dark pants on. His face looks tired and worried and open to her. She takes a shaky breath.

"I…" She shakes her head. "I had a bad dream, I think."

"I know," he says. "But you're okay now."

She nods, understanding that she is in no danger but she still feels frightened and vulnerable and when he starts to get up, she puts her forehead against his bare shoulder and he pats her back gently.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she says into the skin of his upper arm.

"Do you have these often?" he asks, his hand warm and still now on the part of her back where her spine turns into her neck. She is beginning to calm down and sits back up.

"Not lately. It must be the new place, the change of environment," she says, logically. He puts a hand to her forehead and looks satisfied.

"That must be it," he concedes. "Try to get some sleep."

"Thank you," she says. When he goes back to his room, he leaves the connecting door open by just the smallest amount. It is that little bit that allows her to sleep peacefully until morning. She doesn't close the door when she wakes up and goes to take her shower and she doesn't close it when she fastens her bra behind her back or dries her hair with a towel. When he knocks to inform her that it is time to go, he uses the connecting door and they walk through his door into the hallway and down the stairs.

It's a long, but fascinating day. She listens to lectures and papers, she meets new people and former classmates of Snape. He introduces her to so many people that she loses track but it is interesting to see him as not an outcast, but as someone who belongs. It is all four days of this. The lectures and presentations, the quick meals, and then falling into bed exhaustedly. By the time they reach the last day, the day of departure, Hermione is sad to go back to Hogwarts but is ready for the convention to be over.

"But we still have three more days until we are do back at Hogwarts," he says.

"What?" she asks. She has no idea what he has planned.

"I've been telling you for sometime that you need a vacation," he says. "There is a lot to see in this country."

"Travel?" she asks, surprised.

"Isn't there anywhere you'd like to go?" he asks, genuinely. There is, of course, one place that they are near to that she would like to see again.

The grand canyon in the summer is almost unbearable, even with cooling charms. The sun in America beats down relentlessly and Hermione, even with staying mostly inside for several days in lecture, has picked up a slight burn on her shoulders and across the bridge of her nose. But all of this, the heat and the dust, she does not mind. Before her is the largest hole in the earth that she has ever seen. She can tell that while Snape can see it is a feat of Mother Nature, he cannot see what she likes so much.

"I feel insignificant when I look at it," she says, answering his unasked question.

"I thought you liked it," he says. They are up against the bars installed by the muggles to keep the tourists from getting too close to the edge. Hermione wants to get closer, to sit with her legs dangling over the edge.

"I do," she says. "Here I am not an important member of wizard society. Here I am not Harry Potter's friend, or Severus Snape's apprentice. Here I am just a very small girl standing by a very large hole." He doesn't quite know what to say to this and so he says nothing and lets her stand at the rail for as long as she needs to. "I know that you were trying to do something nice for me and you have. But, I think this is all the vacation I need, Professor."

"Very well," he says.

They spend the day getting back to Great Britain, but in London, finally, they take the express to the Hogsmeade station. The train runs periodically through the summer months. The wealthy prefer not to floo long distances and families with children can not apparate. When Snape and Hermione board, there is almost no one else on board and finding an empty compartment has never been so easy. It occurs to her that they do not have to sit together – not even on the same car but he does not suggest this and so they face each other in a single compartment. It is a luxury of time to take the train. They could have apparated from London but instead they wind through the countryside resting up for the return to real life.

The sun has set when the train pulls into the station and though they are tired, they walk back because the air is fresh and warm. Summer as an adult is much longer than those of her childhood. The days stretch and moan. She toils in the lab, but surprisingly does not grow weary of the work. She has not begun to think about what she will do when she obtains her degree. She cannot stay at Hogwarts forever. Maybe she will leave the country. Maybe she will find a place where no one knows her. But that is some time away and she does not let the indecision eat away at her.

"I'm starving," he says, just as they reach the gates.

"We've missed dinner," she says.

"Let's go to the kitchens," he says. He knows she does not like to ask the elves for favors but she feels complacent toward him.

"Maybe they'll give us a plate of leftovers," she muses. He likes this side of her. She is sleepy and sun-soaked, still wearing her summer dress, still happy with how she has spent the hours of this day.

The kitchen is abuzz with activity but when Snape asks for two plates, the elves provide them with two platters heaped with food. It is too much to transport and so they are provided with a small table and two stools. They eat heartily, having missed the elaborate meals of the castle. When she is filled, she leans back and can do little but digest. She is in her food coma, now. The elves have slowed their frenzy and thinned out.

"Well," Snape says, "I'll bid you goodnight now. See you tomorrow."

He leaves her to find her way back downstairs alone. It is the first time they have been really apart in several days and she feels immediately lonely. She walks herself back to her rooms. There is a letter from her parents waiting for her, as well as a letter from Ginny. She and Ginny no longer speak much anymore. But Hermione reads the letter and learns Ginny has gotten a job working at a primary school with very young, magical children. It keeps Ginny busy and Hermione thinks maybe it's good for them to be apart, to not be a constant reminder of loss for one another. The letter is a request for lunch, to catch up one day before the school year starts and Hermione gets too busy for social engagements. Hermione writes back immediately, explaining her delayed response and inviting Ginny to lunch on Sunday. She sends the letter off from the owlry and then goes to bed.

In the morning, it is McGonagall who meets Hermione in the lab, not Snape.

"Did you need something?" Hermione asks.

"Severus had to go away on Order business for a few days," she says. "I wanted to let you know."

"Order business?" Hermione asks.

"Reports of Death Eater activity. It's probably nothing but Severus volunteered to go."

"You don't think he is in any danger, do you?" Hermione asks.

"No," McGonagall says, "He told me you'll be fine on your own for a few days."

Hermione is worried now, and distracted.

"I suppose that's true," she says, distantly.

"If you need to talk, I'm here, Miss Granger. You don't need to lock yourself away down here," McGonagall offers.

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione says but she turns away, back to her cauldron. She knows McGonagall is worried but Hermione can't help that. Hermione is no longer the star pupil of Gryffindor, no longer head girl. She is a different person now – the product of a horrible war.

But Hermione soon realizes McGonagall has a point. With Snape away, she sees people only when she searches them out. It occurs to her that there have been whole days when Snape is the only person she speaks to. The first two days Snape is gone, she goes to every meal and makes an effort to speak to those around her. The third day, when Snape is still gone, she is worried and doesn't feel up to being social. By the time Ginny arrives, on Sunday, Snape is still not back. McGonagall tells her that he is fine, but Hermione can tell that McGonagall expected him to be back by now.

Ginny arrives a little before noon. Hermione greets her on the main floor with a hug and leads her down to her rooms where the elves have provided a tea service and a meal.

"Hermione, where are we going?" Ginny asks as they descend the stairs.

"My rooms, I thought it might be nicer if we didn't eat with everyone else. It will be easier to catch up," she says, opening the door to her rooms.

"I thought these rooms were temporary," Ginny said, looking around. Hermione isn't much of a decorator and has just left the masculine feel alone.

"I just… we never traded back," Hermione admits.

"So these really were Snape's rooms?" she asks, suddenly reluctant to touch anything.

"Not for over a year now," Hermione says, coolly. "Tea?"

"Please," Ginny murmurs, sinking into a chair.

"How is your family?" Hermione asks, seating herself.

"Okay," Ginny says. "They miss you."

Hermione doesn't really want to do this. She doesn't want to sit and listen to Ginny make her feel guilty for cutting herself off from the Weasleys. She doesn't want to go to the Burrow for anymore Christmases, and more New Years parties. They were once a family for her, but the thing that tied her to them is gone, gone. It's too hard to bring this all up, and it's only lunch, so she will suffer through.

"And I, them," she says, uncovering her plate. Mostly she lets Ginny do the talking. She talks about her new job, about a man who asked her out.

"I said no," Ginny says.

"Why?" Hermione asks. He sounds like a nice, normal guy.

"What do you mean, why?" Ginny asks. "How could I possibly say yes?"

"I just want you to be happy, Gin. To be able to move on," Hermione says, but she can tell by Ginny's fiery expression that it is not the right thing.

"How can you even talk about moving on?" she accuses. "It's not like you've done anything of the sort! You haven't even left the castle!" Hermione looks into her lap, looks past Ginny's shoulder. She doesn't want to fight. "Have you moved on? Have you moved on from my brother?" Ginny demands.

It is an interesting question with a complicated answer. Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she knows that moving on from Ron was an inevitability. She probably would have never married him, in the end, but his death makes this ambiguous and unanswerable. It was hard, though, despite that. Hard to let him and Harry go, hard to have no say in her break up.

And then there is Snape. Snape who pulled her up and out of the dark place, Snape who woke her up when she had a nightmare, Snape who chose her over and over again when he could have just saved himself the trouble and left her to die. Had she moved on from Ron? Yes, of course. But what she had moved on to was the question.

"No," Hermione lies, easily. "Of course not."

Ginny lays her head in her arms and begins to cry. Hermione at one time would have walked over to give her comfort but now just watches her, eyes the curve of Ginny's spine, and waits for it to end. Ginny doesn't eat anything and is getting ready just to go, to end this unfortunate luncheon when there is a knock at Hermione's door. Hermione knows immediately that it is Snape. She knows his soft knock, the pattern at which his knuckles meet the wood. She tries not to run to the door, but she rushes, opening it wide. He is there, leaning against the frame with a small trickle of blood running from his forehead down his temple and into his hair. He looks tired, bone weary and she hears herself gasp.

"Come in," she says, taking his arm and leading him to the sofa. "What happened?"

But Snape doesn't say anything. Maybe he is too tired, or maybe he doesn't want to share. He sees Ginny and stares at her coldly.

"I was just going," she says quietly.

"Ginny, would you tell McGonagall that Professor Snape has returned on your way out?" Hermione says. It is a rocky ending to an unpleasant lunch but Ginny leaves to do what Hermione has asked of her.

"Hi," Snape says, wearily.

"You're bleeding," Hermione says, taking a cloth napkin from the table and dipping it into her glass of water. "Is Pomfrey out?"

"Is she ever here when we need her?" Snape asks, leaning back and closing his eyes. Hermione dabs the napkin against the wound and he winces but makes no noise. When the area is at least free of blood, she tries to heal the wound, but it reopens each time she tries.

"Someone did this with their wand," she says but he doesn't say anything. She has a muggle first aid kit and she finds it. A piece of gauze and some medical tape at least cover the injury. He has some other small scrapes on his hands like he was running through bushes or a forest. She uses a cotton swab and alcohol to clean these little cuts. "Does anywhere else hurt?"

"I'm tired," he says.

"Have you eaten?" she asks, and he opens one eye. She hands him the sandwich from her plate and he inhales it while she moves to her bathroom to find him a clean towel. "You need a shower and a rest," she says. "Come on."

She can tell how tired he really is when he stands and follows her, already pulling off the outer layer of his clothes and dropping them, leaving a trail behind him. She starts the water for him, making it hot.

"Try not to get your bandage too wet," she says and shuts the door for him. It's a short shower, just long enough, she imagines, for him to suds up and rinse off. He comes out in only the towel she has provided him with. He looks at her, as if waiting for his next directions, dripping onto the floor. She realizes that he is in shock. "Go lay down," she says. "I'll help you." She hurries into the bedroom and turns down her bed for him. He climbs in, towel and all, and she covers him. "Go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake up," she promises.

"Okay," he says.

It isn't long before McGonagall is knocking at her door.

"Is he here?" McGonagall asks loudly.

"He's asleep," Hermione says, pointedly lowering her voice. Hermione is no longer concerned about winning over McGonagall, about wanting the headmistress to be proud of her.

"Here?" McGonagall asks, looking slightly scandalized.

"He was injured and tired; I wasn't going to make him floo or walk up several flights of stairs," Hermione says, impatient. "Did you send him out alone?"

McGonagall doesn't answer. She is no leader, no soldier, but she has inherited all of Dumbledore's responsibilities – even the ones outside of the school. These were supposed to fall to Harry – Harry was the leader; he had the head for strategy.

"When he wakes up…" McGonagall starts.

"I will," she says. "When is Madame Pomfrey due back?"

"Not for a few weeks," McGonagall says. "If he doesn't get better, we'll send for someone." When she leaves, Hermione sticks her head into the bedroom to make sure he is still asleep. Then she settles in on the sofa with a book and Ginny's leftovers for a long wait.

It's late when he wakes up. She hears him moving around. She's had his clothes cleaned and has left them on the trunk at the foot of the bed. She can hear him dressing. She, herself, is stretched out on the sofa with the throw blanket over her and her eyes closed but she is awake. He opens the door and she sits up.

"Wait," she says because she knows he is going to try to leave without her noticing.

"I thought you were sleeping," he says.

"No," she says, "Just resting. How do you feel?"

"Better, thank you," he says. She gets up and goes over to him. There is still some fresh blood seeping through the gauze and this worries her.

"You're still bleeding," she says. "Let me change your bandage before you go."

He sits down and she reopens her kit and goes about cutting a new square of gauze. He still seems a little dazed and she eases the old bandage off carefully.

"I'm not a mediwitch. If this doesn't stop, please find someone who knows what they're doing," she says. There is blood caked on his skin so she uses a wet wipe to clean the area. He hisses.

"That burns," he snaps.

"It means its working," she dismisses. "Hold still." She reapplies the gauze and then sits next to him. "I worried, you know. You were gone a while."

"Only a few days," he says.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"Just some men living in the forest, getting angry and plotting revenge," he says. "I've alerted the ministry and they will be taken care of."

"Then how did you get hurt?" she asks.

"Lucky shot," he mutters. "I should go speak with Minerva."

"May I come?" she asks. She thinks he says yes before he even thinks about it, considers it because then he looks surprised. Maybe he is just used to telling her yes, now. She doesn't wait for him to change his mind, to retract, and puts on her cloak to keep off the chill of the castle. He doesn't walk fast, but he walks with purpose. When they climb the Gargoyle stairs, he guides her with his hand on her back. McGonagall says nothing about Hermione's presence.

"Who was it?" McGonagall asks.

"No one important," Snape says, sitting down in the chair in front of the desk. Hermione hangs back, stands.

"Malfoy?" McGonagall asks but Snape shakes his head. "Should we organize a meeting?"

"No," Snape says. "There is nothing to tell the order that cannot be said in writing."

It is a leaderless bunch, now, with Dumbledore and Harry both gone. They all wonder when the next leader will step forward, when the next situation will come that needs such leadership. A new Albus, a new Harry.

Hermione is not tired, though it is late when they leave the head office. She walks with him, beside him, though she knows not his destination. He walks close to her, though, and their arms bump as they walk.

"I was not honest, before," he says, softly. "To Minerva or to you."

"About what?" she asks.

"I should not have gone alone. They nearly killed me," he says.

"Are they still a danger?" she asks, willing herself to keep breathing.

"No," he says. "They are not."

They stop and she realizes that she has walked him to his door, unknowingly. She has never been to his quarters.

"I should," she says but he shakes his head.

"Stay," he says. She knows that she should leave, she should turn and go but she finds herself, instead, stepping into the quarters, accepting a cup of tea, taking a seat. All the guest quarters look the same and his are just as impersonal as hers.

"Professor," she says, looking down but his finger reaches out and pushes her chin back up. In her hands, the tea cup rattles on its saucer.

"What would you have done if I hadn't come back, Hermione?" he asks. This is the exact thing she has been trying not to think about and he knows it. She has become attached to him, in some ways dependent. There was a time when she hadn't needed anyone.

"I honestly cannot say," she says, setting the cup and saucer on the coffee table.

"Think about it," he demands.

"I would have found a way to…" But she cannot bring herself to say _move on_ because she is not certain she could have. "All of the men that I have loved have left me, sir, in some way or another."

It is a slip, a mistake, on her part. She doesn't mean to say this to him, doesn't mean to admit something she has yet to even admit to herself. She feels herself flush and stutter, looking for a swift way to reverse time for good. To pluck the words out of the air and shove them back where they came from. Still, through her haze of regret, she can see the look on his face, and it's priceless. For all the color that has come into her cheeks, it has drained from his. His mouth opens and closes, and opens once more. He rubs his hands against his thighs. She can see that he doesn't know what to say. That he does not love her back.

"I didn't mean…" she says, but he raises a hand. She studies his palm, the lines there.

"It's all right," he says. "I have no plans to leave you."

It isn't what she is expecting, this reassurance. The silence stretches between them as she tries to decide what to say.

"Thank you, sir," she says, finally. "Nor I, you."

And though she wants to stay, to hash this out, to see what the hours ahead of them could bring, she does not. She leaves, she walks herself downstairs even though it feels like she floats back to her rooms.


	4. The New Term

For the most part, things are the same until the beginning of the new term. Two days before the students are scheduled to arrive, Minerva calls them into her office. Snape doesn't know her exact reason, but he doesn't feel comfortable with the summons nonetheless. If it were a separate meeting, it would be one thing but he and Hermione together worries him.

After all, they have not broken any rules. She is his student and in some ways, a colleague but other than a few choice words, a few late night conversations, and one foray into drunkenness, nothing has changed. So he goes to the meeting with Hermione who looks just as anxious. Hermione wears her hair up against the lingering heat of the summer. She holds her head high.

In the office they seat themselves and Minerva stands behind the large, wooden desk. Her glasses rest at the tip of her nose and she looks like she has aged a decade in the last few years.

"What is this about?" he says, finally, unwilling to play the staring game.

"I thought we ought to have a talk about your current situation," Minerva says, icily.

"Situation, ma'am?" Hermione says quickly, smoothly. "Do you mean the arrangement with the university?"

"I mean our arrangement here, at Hogwarts, Miss Granger," Minerva says, finally seating herself.

"Are you not satisfied with the work I do here?" Hermione presses on and Snape is content to lean back and let her fight this battle of wills.

"It isn't that," Minerva says. "It is your personal conduct that I have began to question."

Hermione sets her jaw.

"I wasn't aware that my personal life was any of your concern, Headmistress," Hermione says. It is a dangerous route to take.

"You are not the same girl who graduated from here so few years ago," Minerva says, trying a different tactic.

"Nor are you the same, Headmistress," Hermione rallies back. It's true, though. The warmth from Minerva has evaporated into an over worked administrator. She does not like her job, any longer. Everyone can see Minerva McGonagall is desperate for a rest. Snape can understand, though. Minerva, too, had lost a long time love in Albus Dumbledore.

"Please save us the time and the trouble and arrive at your point," Snape says, unwilling to watch any more of this.

"The rules regarding fraternization between faculty are clear – fraternization between student and professor is a matter of the law," she says. Hermione's shock is immediately apparent.

"I beg your pardon," she says, standing. Snape interrupts.

"And what are the rules regarding Master and Apprentice, Minerva?" he says, in a deep, loud voice. He is taunting her.

"Severus you simply know better!" Minerva yells, slapping her hands on the desk.

"You are making assumptions," Snape retorts. "You cannot cite us for any act we have not performed, for rules we have not broken."

"I have seen enough to know what is in your hearts, Severus," she says, sitting back down wearily. Hermione rolls her eyes.

"This is ludicrous," Hermione says. "And I am offended."

"Miss Granger," Minerva starts but Hermione doesn't give her the chance.

"Are you asking me to leave? Am I being made redundant?" she demands.

"No, of course not," Minerva says. Hermione turns and leaves, slamming the office door behind her, shocking both Snape and McGonagall.

"You handled that poorly," Snape says, seething. "How dare you call her out like that."

"Be careful," Minerva says. "Be careful with her."

Snape shakes his head and feels sorry for Minerva.

"You are in over your head," he says. She doesn't respond and he lets himself out. It is not hard to find Hermione. He can hear her cursing just down the hall. He has to jog to catch up with her at the top of the stairs.

"Stop," he calls, and she slows, glancing over her shoulder. He finally makes it to her side. She can walk fast for having short legs, he muses.

"What?" she asks. "Was that not embarrassing enough? Is there something you'd like to add?"

"I'm on your side," he reminds her. "That was inappropriate for Minerva to do."

"I'll say," she says. "I should leave of my own accord."

"No," he says. "You should not." She relaxes a little, takes a deep breath and stops, leaning against the wall.

"I'm so angry," she says, closing her eyes for a moment.

"If the idea of being paired off with me is so distasteful..." he begins, trying to save himself.

"You know that isn't it," she says. "It isn't."

"All right," he says.

"We haven't done anything wrong, have we?" she asks.

"We have not," he assures her. "Come on, let's get some tea," he says, getting her to start walking. He leads her to the dungeons where he floos to have a tea service delivered to the potions office. When it arrives, the silver gleams and she uses a cloth napkin to pour their tea so her fingerprints do not smudge the surface. Her hand is steady, her mouth a thin line. He watches her through heavy lids. Maybe Minerva was right, maybe he should be careful. He doesn't want to, though. For once in his long, lonely life, he wants to be reckless. She hands him his tea, black, and doctors her own with cream. There are sandwiches and biscuits, but he isn't hungry and she doesn't touch them.

"And if we had done something wrong, what would happen to me? To you?" she asks, continuing their previous conversation. There is a desk between them, the room is dark, and he puts his feet up.

"You would be fine. You would transfer back onto the campus of UMCL and finish out your studies as a normal student," he says.

"What about you?" she asks.

"I would lose my job, probably," he says, chuckling. "Though, I too would be fine."

She bites her lip, stirs her tea and looks contemplative.

"What a silly conversation to be having," she says, finally, with a shaky laugh. "Like we're discussing the weather."

"It will start to rain, soon," he says.

"Don't," she pleads. "I don't want to talk about the weather."

"What do you want to talk about?" he asks.

"If I left, what would you do?" she asks. He knows what she wants him to say, and for once he says it.

"I would leave too," he says. "But I think you know that." She looks away from him, she puts her hand over her mouth.

"Do you love me?" she asks. He chuckles and shakes his head.

"I don't know what love is, Hermione," he says. "Or whether this is it."

"Then what do you know?" she asks. She is surprisingly calm, surprisingly still for the severity of this conversation. But he can see she is agitated; she is flushed and there is a vein that is pulsing in her neck. He applauds her performance.

"I know that you make me into some one different, someone better," he says. "And what about you? Isn't it your turn to bare your soul?"

"You know how I feel," she says. He raises his eyebrow – he wants her to say it but he can see that she is not ready. "Why don't we do it, then? Why don't we just leave? It's what she wants."

"It isn't what she wants," he says. "And you need to finish your degree."

"Then what do we do?" she asks.

"Do?" he asks, surprised. "We do nothing. We wait."

"But," she says, beginning to argue but she stops, falters, and closes her mouth. It is a dreadful, dreary proposition, but it is the right thing to do. She thanks him for his tea and excuses herself.

Once the term starts, it is easier. Their days are filled with routine – with classes, grading papers, meals, and rounds. She is not the only person he sees, the only person he speaks to. While she is important, she is not the center of his day.

They run into one another in odd places, at odd times. He finds her in the greenhouse used mostly for storage and she tells him she is looking for an empty pot, to re-pot the purple flowers she keeps in their lab. She finds him in the Charms classroom, talking with Filius and it startles her to see him in a classroom he almost never graces.

Sometimes, late, late at night, hours after curfew, he walks down to the dungeons and lingers outside her door. Never for long, never more than a few minutes. He knows that if he were to knock, to let himself in, she would not turn him away.

They sit together at Quidditch games. She, of course, roots for Gryffindor and he for Slytherin. This is the first year she has gone to the games – before it was too hard. Gryffindor's seeker is a girl, a fourth year named Cecilia who is good, but not the star the Gryffindor team had gotten used to. When she lets the snitch escape her grasp, allowing Ravenclaw to win, Hermione speaks softly.

"Harry would have won that game," she says. Hermione rarely talks about Harry Potter anymore. Snape doesn't know what to say. The stands are emptying and they, too, must stand to allow the other people on the bench to leave. Snape guides her down the narrow flights of stairs, holding on to the edge of her red and gold scarf so they do not get separated. Around them, students talk and laugh, loudly. The Ravenclaws are so far ahead of the other houses this season, that their win has been taken for granted. The Gryffindors look resigned to another year of loss. Their golden age has ended in so many ways.

Clear from the pitch, Snape hangs back, so he and Hermione can bring up the rear of the crowd, keeping stragglers from wandering off. He tries to comfort her.

"We don't have to go to the games any more," he says.

"It isn't that," she says. "It's just, I can hear them, you know? In my head. Rooting for Gryffindor, taking every loss personally." She shakes her head. "I thought it would be easier to let go."

"I know you did," he says. She leans into him a little. It's not wise, this public contact but everyone is ahead of them, rushing toward the castle in hopes of cocoa in the common rooms; a victory celebration for Ravenclaw. He gives her a few seconds before clearing his throat. "It's a weekend – what do you say we spike our cocoa?"

"Let's," she says, feeling careless. "It's getting so cold, so fast."

"It's your birthday soon," he comments, proud that he can remember such things. She looks at him, pleased.

"It is," she says. "Twenty-One."

"Ouch," he says, shaking his head.

"You're an old man, I know," she teases.

"Watch it," he warns. He may be old enough to be her father, but he is no father figure.

"Distinguished, I mean," she clarifies. "And what will you get me for my birthday?"

"If I tell you, it would ruin the surprise," he says. Honestly, he has no idea. A book, perhaps. A new quill. He doesn't know, and has no one to ask for advice.

"I hate surprises," she says, but it isn't true.

He tries not to go into her rooms, anymore, nor she in his. It is a dangerous, heady feeling, to be alone with her, but on this cold, early September day so soon in the term, he simply does not care. He does not care that Minerva watches their every move like a hawk. He does not care that Hermione is still sad about Harry Potter, a boy he loathed. He does not care that she is half his age. He cares that underneath her scarf, she has a beautifully slender neck and he cares that she pours the whiskey in the mug before the cocoa.

She hands him the mug, but he sets it down immediately. He puts his hand on the back of her neck and leans in swiftly and with great purpose. He kisses her. He presses his mouth firmly against hers and coaxes her lips apart. Her tongue meets his half way and her arms snake up and around his neck. They are kissing – she is pressed against him, on her toes. It lasts for long seconds and is over too quickly. He pulls away and she makes this agonizing mewling noise deep in her throat – a noise of loss.

"Forgive me," he says, pushing his forehead against hers.

"No," she says, and kisses him again.

Her waist is tiny under his hands. She is the shape of a small hourglass. This time it is she who steps back, who puts her hand over her hot mouth, who stares at him with glassy eyes.

"If you leave now, I'll be okay," she says, carefully. It is the same determined way she spoke when drunk – one word at a time. He doesn't hang around to face the consequences. He gives her an apologetic and needy look and flees. On the main floor there are people everywhere. It is bright and loud and he feels constricted and too warm, despite the cold. One of the older Slytherins tries to stop him, asks him if he feels all right, but he pushes the boy off and practically runs to his quarters. In his bathroom, he fills the basin with cold water and plunges his face into it fearlessly, recklessly. It is bone chilling, but he stays under until his lungs can take no more. Water seeps into his collar, trails down his skin. He coughs, sputters, and glares at himself in the mirror.

She has broken him.

Three hours later, she knocks on his door. He knows it's her, of course it is her, because who else would it be? She has changed clothes, put her hair up, washed her face. She looks clean, like a bare canvas. He has to invite her in. When she steps into the lamp light, he can see that she has been crying.

"I'm an ass," he says, immediately, turning his back to her, looking into the fire in his hearth.

"No you aren't," she says, with a miserable sniffle. "I'm needy and naïve."

"I don't want to fight," he says.

"We aren't," she says back, with a small smile. He can't see it, but he can hear it in her voice. "Severus, would you think less of me if I told you I was scared?"

"Scared of what?" he asks, turning to look at her. She is perched on the edge of the ottoman, angled away. He can see her profile in the warm light; the straight line of her nose, the curve of her brow.

"Life," she says. "I can feel it, the constant beating of it against my ribcage. It wants out but every time I try to open the door, all I can see is my dead friends."

"You didn't kill them," he says.

"I didn't save them," she retorts.

"They saved you, Hermione," he says, desperately, moving to crouch in front of her. "Don't you see that? They saved you." Her tears start again. He knows she didn't want to be saved; he knows this because he didn't want it either. His whole life had been building up to this war, this battle, this moment and she stole it right out from under him. He had cursed at her as she pulled him away, with a strength far greater than she should have possessed. In the hospital, several days later, she'd asked him if he was mad at her for what she had done, and he had told her yes. She hadn't seemed surprised.

She leans in now, kisses him lightly. She touches his cheek and he leans into her hand.

"Please let me stay," she says. Her voice is sorrowful – she is sad that she has to ask him this.

"For a little while," he concedes. They stretch out on the couch together, him on the inside and her tucked neatly against him. Their legs tangle and her head fits just under his chin. They watch the fire crackle, burn, and die down. She sleeps a little, and he rubs her arms. When the over head bells chime four am, she opens her eyes and he pushes her hair away from her neck and kisses the skin there.

"I have to go," she says, her voice hoarse with sleep. He hums something that means yes in his mind. "I have class in the morning, and then a meeting at the university in the afternoon," she continues but she is talking herself into leaving, not him.

"Use the floo," he says against her pulse.

"Does McGonagall monitor the floo?" she asks and he remembers that she was here during the reign of Umbridge. He shudders.

"If she does, then we both really should quit," he says. They sit up at the same time and she hugs him before she goes, activates the floo, and steps through. He should go to bed, but instead he lays back on the couch. She has left her smell there and he cannot seem to tear himself away.

In the morning, they are both grumpy and silent at breakfast. Sleep deprivation is attractive on no one and she scowls as she spreads jam on her toast. He does not eat much – he pushes his porridge around in his bowl. He does not envy the several hours she has ahead of her with teaching and her meeting. She keeps up steadily with her ever increasing work load. She does not buckle under that sort of pressure. He likes that about her.

In his free hours, he usually stays in the lab grading or working on Hermione's next assignment but this morning, he goes back to his rooms and crawls into bed. His pillow is soft and his draperies block most of the light. He has a headache and he feels slightly hung over though he never even drank that cocoa. He sleeps through lunch and wakes up only when she is there, at the edge of his bed. She looks concerned.

"When did you get here?" he asks.

"I think you're running a fever," she says, ignoring his question. Her hand is cool against his forehead and cheeks. "Do you feel all right?"

Now that she asks, his throat is a little sore and his head is still swimming.

"Not really," he says. "What time is it?"

"Nearly one," she says, glancing at her watch. He sits up quickly and his vision speckles.

"I have to teach," he says, unconvincingly.

"You need to rest," she corrects him. "I'll look after your classes."

"You have your meeting," he says.

"I'll reschedule," she dismisses. "They love me over there – I am the best student they have who hardly attends." He isn't in the mood for her jokes.

"I feel better already," he says, but she pushes him back down.

"I'll get Pomfrey to make a house call," she warns him. This is not desirable.

"You'll have to explain what you were doing in my quarters," he groans, lying back and coughing a little. His chest feels tight.

"I'll take my chances," she says, dryly. "Go back to sleep, I'll look in on you in a little while."

"Bossy," he mutters, but closing his eyes feels like heaven and he lets her go without further complaint. It seems like she's back quickly, like she hardly left. But she isn't alone and he can hear her speaking to someone. She sounds far away and he feels detached from himself. Like he is floating.

"I can't get him to wake up," she says. He can hear that she is crying, and the sound of tears in her voice forces his eyes open.

"Severus, can you hear me?" The voice belongs to Poppy and he groans a little.

"What's the matter with him?" Hermione asks.

"He's picked up the virus that is running through the Seventh years like wild fire," Poppy responds. "This will help."

Poppy's cold, clinical hand supports his neck and she pours a potion down his throat. He feels better, fast. His head clears, he can see. He sits up, wipes his face.

"Can you hear me?" Poppy repeats.

"Yes," he whispers.

"You'd better come to the infirmary," she says, crossly. "Something you should have done the moment you began to feel ill."

"I'm okay," he says, sitting up. He tried to ignore the dizziness, the urge to vomit.

"You aren't," Hermione says. "You're sick."

"Let's get him to the floo," Poppy says, all business. Together, the help him to the fireplace. He doesn't want to depend on them, but he finds himself putting all his weight on their shoulders. They struggle into the infirmary and deposit him on a bed. He is relieved to not be moving. "You'll need a vial of this as well, Miss Granger," Poppy says.

"I… We had an appointment and when he didn't answer… It just wasn't like him to skip…" she says, stumbling over her excuses. If Snape's eyes were open, he would roll them.

"I understand," Poppy says. "Take this, and get some rest. If you feel ill, come back."

"Anything else I can do?" Hermione asks.

"No," Poppy is brisk and Hermione gets out of the way; she leaves him alone in the infirmary.

It takes him a day and a half to recover – or at least that long before he can no longer stand a second more under Poppy's excessive watchfulness. He sneaks out when she is away and goes to his rooms. He fills the tub with hot water and crawls in. He is no longer sick but he has a sick hangover. The achy, spent feeling that follows in the wake of a particularly heinous cold. Washing his hair, helps, as does putting on fresh clothes. After all of his, he finds that he is starving, and so he goes to dinner. Hermione smiles when she sees him.

"You look better," she says.

"I am," he says. "I think."

"You were pretty out of it," she says.

"Well, several years of the Cruciatus curse will weaken the immune system," he jokes but she does not smile. She does not look amused. They eat in silence. After dinner, she walks with him back to his rooms. They do not touch, and they speak very little.

"You shouldn't have…" Snape begins.

"I know," she says, quickly. "You were sick. I didn't know what was wrong; what was I supposed to do?"

"I…I don't know," he says. "Has McGonagall spoken to you?"

"Nope," she says.

"Let's hope she doesn't," Snape says. Hermione turns the corner before they reach his door.

It should feel exhilarating to finally have Hermione, to be able to touch her even if discreetly but spending most of his life as a spy has taken all the fun out of it. Now he just wants to come home every night to someone who is interesting, someone who likes him, to Hermione. When is that going to happen? When?

His room is empty and cold. He lights the fire but it takes a long time for the room to warm up. He has a lot to do because of his time out, but instead he just wraps a blanket around his shoulders and picks up a book. He spends the night reading and dozing and relearning how to really be alone.


	5. Love Affair

Hermione is adamant about skipping the celebration of her twenty-first birthday.

"No other professor celebrates their birthday," she says.

"We're all old," he argues. "You are young and should celebrate another year."

"Please, let's not," she says. He wants to have a small party in the staff room. She thinks they should keep the attention away from them. Hermione talks about leading a quiet life often. She wonders if he ever really will leave the castle, leave this job, leave this life for something new and something better.

Of course, Snape is just as notorious in wizarding Britain as Hermione is. It isn't the same, though. Hermione is quietly applauded as a hero and Snape is reluctantly recognized. In everyone's minds, though, he is the man who killed Albus Dumbledore, no matter how many lives the one life saved. Hermione is uncertain about the future, about how the public will see them together.

It doesn't matter though. She doesn't care what anyone else thinks. She has no expectations for her birthday. No parties, no gifts. In the old days, before the war, Harry tended to load her up with candy and then Ron would eat all the candy and they would have fun. She was content to simply be with her friends. Now, on this birthday, she will be content in the same way once again.

"I just want to spend it with you," she says. She can see that this pleases him an inordinate amount. Color comes to his face and he fights a smile.

"All right," he says. "Maybe we can leave the castle? Go to town for dinner?"

"Oh, let's not," she says. "Let's just stay in."

Because leaving the castle is dangerous. It's leaving the place that keeps a close and constant eye on them. Outside, they go to a nice restaurant, it gets late, they get a room and… then how could she stand to be apart from him? No, staying in is better. Maybe grading some papers, reading a book, drinking a glass of wine.

The day of her birthday is a Wednesday, which is a disappointing day of the week regardless. She teaches two classes, and spends most of the day brewing. By the time dinner has ended, she feels exhausted and dirty. She goes to her rooms and takes a shower – a real shower. She washes her hair and uses the thick, heavy conditioner that weighs the mass down into proper curls. She shaves her legs and under her arms. She dries off with a big towel and rubs lotion into her skin. She brushes her hair out roughly, squeezing out the excess water. She washes her face with ice cold water from the basin to tighten her pores. She brushes her teeth and leaves the bathroom wrapped in her lavender towel.

It isn't out of place for Snape, these days, to let himself into her rooms. He is doing this as she exits the bathroom, heading toward her closet. He comes into her bedroom when she doesn't appear in the living room and she is startled.

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately, but he doesn't leave. He looks her over, in her towel, from the crown of her head, to her bare shoulders, her hips, her toes. She feels like she should turn away, ask him to leave, but instead she lets him look, lets him get his fill. Her mistake is thinking she knows what his fill is.

"It's all right," she says, finally. "I'll be ready in a moment."

"Happy Birthday," he says, unable to look away.

"Thanks," she says. "I'll only be a few minutes."

"I didn't get to tell you earlier," he continues, finally meeting her eyes. She is scrubbed clean – no make-up, no high collar to cover her long neck. Her skin is in that time between wet and dry where it glistens but it will be smooth to the touch. Her bedroom smells like her lotion; like pink flowers on delicate stems.

"Severus," she says. Until he makes a move to leave, they are stuck there. He does move, but he doesn't leave. He walks toward her. She watches him approach with mild trepidation. He isn't going to hurt her, that much is clear. He's looking at her with such irreverence. When he is close, he reaches out and touches her bare shoulder. His fingers travel up the curve to her neck and to her damp hairline. He has seen this skin before. First, on the battle field when she tore off her own blouse to push it into his gaping wound, and again when he cut her t-shirt off after the accident in the store room. But this is different. There is no crisis, nothing to distract him except the skin itself. She can see that she has lost him to this moment. And for a second, she is content to let him touch her. She doesn't realize that she has lost control until he leans down and runs his tongue hotly along the pale, soft skin of her neck.

The noise he causes her to make sounds inhuman. It is somehow too high and too low at the same time and she'd be embarrassed about it if she had that kind of time. But he is already kissing her, scraping his teeth along her, and when her knees buckle, his arms is around her waist to support her.

The towel goes in no time.

It isn't fair, exactly. He pushes her against the bed and she lays down, completely nude. He still has all of his clothes on and Snape is a man who wears a lot of clothes. She thinks about telling him to stop, to think, to consider the actual consequences of sex, but then she remembers that it's her birthday. Hermione hasn't had sex with a Slytherin in a long time.

"Take off your clothes," she says. It's permission, and he starts pulling at buttons and claps. What is piled on the floor, when he is finished, is practically an entire load of laundry in her mother's muggle washing machine. Underneath all of that, he is still skinny, still scarred.

He touches her everywhere. He cannot be rushed, despite her pleas. He finds every spot that makes her gasp and pant. When the time comes, he does not allow her to be shy. He forces her knees apart, he makes sure her ankles lock behind his back. He is gentle, but he does not baby her. He makes sure to give as well as he gets.

They have waited a very long time.

It's almost comforting that he falls asleep immediately after they are done. It makes it more natural, more real. She is tired too, and pulls the blanket over them. She is sweaty, but he doesn't care. He sleeps with his face pressed against her, his hand still in her hair. She wants to fall asleep but she can't. She is glowing, she is alive. She squirms and rolls over and kicks him.

"Quit it," he says, his face deep in her pillow.

"I'm happy," she says. "Though I suppose I ought to feel guilty."

"Guilty?" he asks, opening his eyes slightly.

"For moving on," she says, her smiling fading a little. "I lied to Ginny Weasley about that."

"You are not the first to lie to a Weasley," he says, throwing his arm across her waist and dragging her closer to him, against him.

"No," she says. "I am not."

"Close your eyes," he says. "Be still."

"I'll be right back," she says, getting out of the bed. He sighs, disappointed. She goes into the bathroom and looks at her disheveled reflection. She runs hot water over her washcloth and cleans herself up. She brushes out her hair and puts on her robe. It's cold, away from the heat of his body. She sits on the edge of the tub and takes a moment to consider her options. They cannot do this every night – it is her birthday, a day for everyone to look the other way. They can go back to stolen moments and self-denial or they can find a new option.

In the bedroom, Snape has pulled his underwear back on and is rooting around in his pile of clothing.

"What's the matter?" she asks, tightening her sash.

"I had a gift for you," he says, reaching into the pocket of his cloak. "Which will surely now pale in comparison to what you just received."

"We'll see," she says, smugly. He hands her a small package. "What is it?"

"Open it," he says. She thinks it might be jewelry but she doesn't know how to react to that. Hermione has never been the kind of girl that a man gives jewelry to, and she doesn't know how to start. Inside the silver paper is a white box. She opens it with some reluctance, but inside is not jewelry, but a medal.

"It's your Order of Merlin," she says. She has one as well, a higher class, even, but she can understand this gift.

"I know it's not practical, or perhaps even what you wanted, but…" he shrugs. "It's really for you, in the end." She turns the medal over and reads the inscription. _Severus Snape_.

"It's lovely," she says. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says. He starts to dress.

"You're not going to shag and run, are you?" she asks, only half joking.

"I shouldn't stay all night, you know that," he says.

"I'm tired of this," she says. "I want you to stay."

"Are you certain?" he asks.

"Positive," she says. They order food, they climb into bed and eat it. They fall asleep and early, just when the sun begins to rise, only then does she let him leave, but even then, it is reluctantly.

But it's not like it gets easier. To Hermione, Severus Snape is a drug that she can't get enough of. She thinks about him doing inappropriate things at inappropriate times. Her students find her fanning herself with her lecture notes even though it's November and they are in the coldest part of the castle. When she goes to his rooms late, she leaves smelling like him – his shampoo in her hair.

Hermione and Snape speak in short hand. They spend so much time together, that full sentences are no longer required.

In December, four days before the students leave, they have sex in the lab. He lifts her onto an empty counter and doesn't even bother to take off her clothes. They just push fabric around until they can connect. Afterward, her skirt is wrinkled and stained and they are both slightly embarrassed at their lack of control. He has left a mark on her neck. He has to leave in ten minutes to teach a class of seventh years, of people old enough to know what sex looks and smells like.

When she sees him again, several hours later, she is still blushing.

"I think we have a problem," she says. He looks at her blankly, but she knows it is a mask. She knows he knows what she means. "I know I said I'd stay here, but I think I'll go see my parents for a few days. I'll take the train back with the students."

"Will you come back?" he asks. It's a silly question fueled by fear, and insecurity.

"Of course," she says. "I'll come back, Severus."

McGonagall seems thrilled at the prospect of Hermione leaving the castle, if even only for a few days. The Headmistress immediately reverts back to kindness. She puts her hand on Hermione's shoulder when they speak, and offers her a cup of tea. They chat about Gryffindor, about students, about her independent study. It is almost as if the past few icy conversations have not happened.

"I know that you are excelling in your program, and the students who have you as a professor love you, but you're coming up on your final year of study. You should begin to think about what you will do when your time at the castle comes to an end," McGonagall says.

Walking down the hall, away from the round office, Hermione understands what McGonagall was really saying. She was telling Hermione that once she graduated, she couldn't stay.

The night before her departure, Snape comes through the floo. Hermione is sitting on the floor on the living area, putting her hair into two braids. Her suitcase is half packed, and she is in pajamas. Next to her is a mostly empty glass of red wine. Her cheeks are flushed.

"Hi," she greets, allowing him to step over her.

"All packed?" he asks, sarcastically.

"I got distracted," she says, and he notices the open book on her lap. She looks young with her hair like that and he tries not to feel lecherous. She is young, after all. He watches her finish, folding her clothes with crisp, straight lines. She doesn't pack very much, but she does so efficiently. She's going to miss him. "You could come with me," she says.

"You don't mean that," he says. Maybe she didn't, but she wouldn't retract the invitation should he accept.

"You'd hate it," she conceded. "But maybe you should get out for a while, too."

"I have lived most of my life here," he says.

"You're going to have to learn to live somewhere else," she says. It's demanding and presumptuous of her to say this to him, but he doesn't give her a snappy comeback. He just considers this while he watches her small hands fold clothes and fasten the suitcase closed. He stays for most of the night but he won't see her off at the train, when she leaves, and so he kisses her palm before he goes, while she is still sleeping. He says a silent goodbye.

Hermione would like to sit alone on the train, but there isn't the space. She gets an empty compartment but soon it is filled with three reluctant looking Hufflepuffs, fifth years. They are not popular and are afraid to speak in front of a professor. Hermione opens a book on her lap and stares intently at it, though she doesn't read much. The students whisper and giggle and she thinks about Snape. He seemed concerned that she would leave him and not return.

It is a long ride, lacking anticipation, traveling away from what she wants most. She could have stayed but she needs a few days to relearn how to be herself without him. To see her family, to live a life free of responsibility and obligation.

"Professor?" Her thoughts are interrupted by one of the students, a girl with very dark hair named, she thinks, Anna.

"Hmm?" she says, looking at them. They are all watching her.

"Why didn't you just apparate?" Anna asks.

"You mean instead of taking the train?" she asks, and they all nod. "I suppose I prefer to do some things the muggle way," They all look unconvinced. "Plus, the headmistress wanted me to keep an eye on the troublemakers. _Especially_ the Hufflepuffs," she teases.

"We're good!" they exclaim. This breaks the ice and she chats with the friendly students for much of the ride back. They don't ask her about Harry Potter and they don't ask her about Snape, and she is grateful.

Her parents are both home when she arrives, carrying her suitcase in her left hand. She lets herself into the warm house and her parents are thrilled to see her. Hermione's mother hugs her with wet eyes, looking her over intently, trying to match this new Hermione with that of her memories.

"You're taller," her father says, but this is not true. Hermione has been the same height since she was fourteen.

"No," she laughs, "I'm not."

"Well, you look different," her mother agrees, touching her hair, her face, her hips like she is a stranger and not the person who she had made over twenty years ago. "Did you get your birthday money?"

"Yes, Mum, thank you," she says, setting her bag down. "I'm here, you don't have to stare at me, I'm staying."

"Come in, come in," her father says, taking her coat and her bag and carrying them up the stairs to her room for her. She takes a seat in the kitchen where her mother is cooking. It smells familiar and they are quiet until her father returns. "How did you arrive home?" His question is diplomatic.

"The train," she says. "Then the bus, and a walk."

"No magic?" her mother asks, surprised.

"It's easier, sometimes, to travel like a non-magic person when surrounded by non-magic people," she explains, looking past her mother at the stove. "That's a lot of food for the three of us."

"I invited a guest," her mother says.

"Who?" Hermione demands. Her father looks into the refrigerator, searching rather intently for a beer.

"He's a new doctor who works in our building. He's young, lives alone, and is new to the area. I thought he could use a home cooked meal," she explains airily. Her father opens his beer and coughs.

"Mum!" Hermione exclaims. She knows a set up when she hears one.

"What could it hurt?" her mother asks, innocently. "You wouldn't have me turn him out now?"

"He's a smart lad," her father offers, sitting across from her, now. She narrows her eyes a little to show she does not approve but she doesn't say anything else. It isn't her house, and she does not dictate who is allowed to eat at the dinner table. She does not change out of her black travel clothes; she does not fix her make-up or her hair. When he arrives, she shakes his hand politely. He is tall and very blond. He is attractive, yes, but the type of man who dates the Lavender Browns of the world. He is nice to her, and she feels guilty even participating in the evening. She misses Snape. She realizes that if this is the type of man her parents want her to marry, they will be disappointed in the man she loves.

"Hermione is still in University," her father says, proudly. Hermione had asked them not to tell him too much about her – she doesn't like to lie.

"Where do you attend?" he asks. She glances sideways at her father to convey her disapproval.

"University of London," she lies. It's a large school, ambiguously so.

"And your field of study?" he asks.

"Chemistry," she says, which is only sort of a lie. Hermione clears the dishes, serves the pie, pours the coffee. She allows her parents to converse with this doctor and she shakes his hand again when he leaves.

"He was nice," her mother says, looking at her pointedly.

"I don't know what you expect from me," Hermione says, frustrated.

"We just want you to be happy. It's been almost three years since Ronald passed away," her mother says.

"I know how long it's been," Hermione snaps. She really doesn't want to talk about this.

"Dear," her father begins but she holds up her hand.

"Did it ever occur to you that I perhaps am already seeing someone?" She doesn't mean to admit this, to let them in on this aspect of her life and she immediately regrets the admission. She can see that this has not occurred to either of her parents. She says nothing about this in her letters. She also says nothing about being lonely.

"Are you?" her mother asks.

"Besides," Hermione ignores the question, "I don't even live in non-magic society anymore. I'd spent my whole life either lying to him or trying to explain something he can't ever understand."

"Let's not talk about this any longer," her father says. Her mother looks like she wants to talk about it all night, but she defers to Mr. Granger. Instead they sit sullenly together and watch the television. Hermione doesn't recognize the program they watch or the actors in it. Her father watches it too loudly and the advertisements are bright and intrusive. She sits for less than the full hour and excuses herself to her bedroom.

She isn't sleepy, but she's tired and slowly dresses for bed. She thinks about writing to Snape, but she has no owl and nothing that she is willing to share with him about the evening. She misses him but does not know how to explain him to her family. Most days, she doesn't know how to explain him to herself. She tries to think about how he was when she first met him, when she was just a girl. How tall and cold he was, how unjust, how unforgiving – but it is hard for her to bring up these memories now. They seem too distant; her perspective of him is too altered. For every terrible memory she has of him, there is now one to balance it.

She falls asleep with these thoughts, but her sleep is restless. She feels unsure.

In the morning, she wakes late and her parents are both gone to their office. She is relieved not to face them, though, and relieved at the thought they'll be gone all day. There is practically the entire day stretched before her. She eats a bowl of cereal in the kitchen and takes a shower. When she came home for the summers and for the holidays as a teenager, there were grammar school friends to visit, elderly relatives, and then off the Burrow but she has none of that. So instead, she goes into town. She walks through the shops, takes a light lunch, and only when it begins to rain does she find a dark corner and apparate home.

They go out at night, either to a restaurant or to the house of family friends. Hermione is a good guest – she answers all the questions concisely but not rudely and never speaks too much about her self. She eats one serving, has one cup of coffee or tea. If there are children, she entertains them.

On the morning she is set to leave, her mother asks her to stay until Christmas.

"You knew I was only planning to stay for four or five days, Mum," she says. Her father is gone on mysterious errands which probably means he is at Harrods, buying her mother a pair of gloves or a new umbrella for the holiday.

"But it's been ages since we've all been together for Christmas," her mother complains.

"Because you tend to go to France," Hermione points out. "Which I rather thought you enjoyed."

"We do, but we're staying home this year and I thought maybe you'd like to as well. A family, Hermione," she pleads. Hermione sighs and sits down. It is a guilt trip, but she suspects her mother really does want her to stay.

"Christmas isn't for another week," she says, carefully. "What if I came back for Christmas Eve dinner, or perhaps the day?"

"I would be delighted," her mother said, her smile wide. "Your father will be pleased, so pleased." It was a fair compromise, Hermione knew, but she wanted to be able to decline, to claim other plans. She and Snape hadn't talked about the holiday.

"Good," Hermione says, closing her suitcase.

"Maybe you could bring your new boyfriend," her mother says, nonchalantly. Hermione rolls her eyes. _Yeah right_, she thinks.

The castle is strangely empty. Usually there are people in the great hall, arguably the warmest place in the castle on a cold day but it is empty, with only one fireplace lit. Hermione abandons her idea of getting settled back into her room first and goes straight to Snape's rooms. She knocks three times and when there is no answer, she lets herself in.

The rooms are empty. She tries not to panic, to overreact. He's probably in the lab brewing, in the greenhouses collecting ingredients, or even out to town. She goes down stairs to the classroom, the office, the lab, but he isn't in any of these locations. She lets herself into her rooms and enlarges her suitcase, leaving it by the door. She simply must wait a little while to see if he appears. She wants to think that he's simply out, but it is snowing pretty hard and it doesn't seem likely he'd choose to go for a stroll.

She tears through her bedroom intent on the bathroom but something stops her. A slight fluttering of movement, an out of place sigh. She turns her head. He is there in the bed, fast asleep. In her bed, in her rooms. It wasn't a place she'd thought to look.

"Hey," she says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You're back," he says, without opening his eyes.

"Since when do you nap in the middle of the day?" she asks, running her hand through his tangled hair.

"Since I've no one and nothing to amuse me," he says, rolling into his back and stretching. He opens his eyes and gives her a sleepy wink.

"Well you gave me a fright," she says, crossing her arms. "Where is everyone?"

"I think Sybil is still here, somewhere, but Minerva went to some Ministry thing," he says, sounding bored with it already. "How were your parents?"

She shrugs, and he lifts the covers so she can kick off her shoes and lay next to him. He is warm and he lets her put her cold toes between his legs.

"That exciting?" he prods.

"They want me to come back for Christmas," she says, closing her eyes. A midday nap does have appeal.

"Oh," he says.

"I don't want to, Severus," she says, quickly. "But they seemed so needy and you hadn't mentioned any plans."

"It's not a crime to spend the holiday with your parents," he says. "I didn't have plans; I thought we'd just lie in." He doesn't seem mad, only mildly disappointed, which is surprisingly worse.

"They invited you," she says.

"You told them about me?" he asks, both eyebrows shooting up.

"Not exactly," she says. "Well, it was funny, really." He doesn't look like he's about to laugh. "They tried to set me up with this young doctor who was not my type at all."

"Strikingly handsome, I suppose," Snape grumbles, biting her shoulder. She swats him away.

"If you like that sort of thing," she teases. "They know that there is someone, just not that it's you."

"Old, bitter, wizard," he says.

"What's not to love?" she says, with a soft smile. He does not smile back but closes his eyes again and keeps her close. They sleep away the morning and she does not worry about blond doctors, Christmas, or anything but the man beside her.


	6. Leaving

Hermione has been picking fights with him all day. He knows he has not done anything to provoke this, that she is merely irritable in that way that women get irritable cyclically. She wants nothing to do with him, will not be plied with food or literature or company. By the early afternoon, he gives up and lets her be, alone in her room. Twenty minutes later, she finds him, crying and apologizing. But it isn't long before she is mean, again. He doesn't know what to do. In the morning, they are to go to her parents house for Christmas Eve dinner. It is her concession – allowing the actual holiday to be theirs alone.

At the moment, she does not concede much, though. She twists her hair in her hands maddeningly and then later, complains of a headache. She is happy and then sad in a matter of seconds.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asks, finally, but it is not the right thing to say. She storms out and he does not see her for several hours, until night fall. She slinks back quietly. She has changed her clothes and he thinks she looks pretty in green. He has been drinking, letting the alcohol keep him company. She stands at the end of the couch, where he is currently sprawled, and puts her fingers in her back pockets, as if they are cold. He doesn't know what to say to her, what she expects. Her mood is so unpredictable that anything he says is bound to be wrong. He waits and then she begins to speak.

"One Christmas vacation, Harry didn't get invited to the burrow," she says. "Ron and his family went somewhere else that year, but I can't remember where. I went home to my family and Harry went to the Dursleys."

"Why didn't he stay at Hogwarts?" Snape asks, and his voice sounds thick to his own ears.

"I don't know. I've asked myself that a number of times. Perhaps Dumbledore asked him to go," she says. "Anyway, on Christmas Eve, just as I am finally falling asleep, Hedwig taps on my window. Harry's owl," she says.

"I know," he says, softly. Everyone knew that white owl, a female, belonged to Harry Potter.

"She had a note, and it was for me," Hermione continued. "Harry's Uncle had spent the evening using him as a punching bag. I could actually see little smears of blood on the parchment – still damp. But all he asked me was the spell for repairing one's eyeglasses. He couldn't remember it, he never could." She laughs, hollowly. "He couldn't even have used it, I suppose, because he was underage but I doubt anyone would have come for him in the night."

"What did you do?" Snape asks, even though he already knows how this story starts to end.

"I sent Hedwig along to Dumbledore asking for someone to fetch Harry and to bring him to my house. He did, he came himself with Harry and his newly repaired glasses, two black eyes and a bloody nose."

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Harry didn't even… it didn't even seem odd to him. The only thing that was out of place for Harry was the fact that he didn't have to wake up in the morning and go through it all over again," she says, shaking her head. "I gave him a steak to put against his face and he slept on the floor next to my bed. In the morning, he thanked my parents for giving him a good Christmas."

He sits up and makes space for her on the couch, but she doesn't sit down.

"I didn't ever think I would be without him, even with the war and the battles and the danger, it simply never occurred to me that there would be a time when I would have to live with out him," she says, and buries her face into her hands, crying – sobbing painfully. But for some reason there is a wall around her and he can't seem to get up, to get himself over to her, to offer comfort. All he can do is stand and watch her cry.

It occurs to Snape then that what he is giving her, what he has to offer… it isn't enough.

Suddenly he is scared and pumped full of adrenaline. He launches himself off the couch and wraps his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. But she shrugs out of his hold and wipes at her face. Snape feels rebuked. It's hard to watch her, to know she was in love with another man. It isn't the same kind of love that she shares with him, but it was a love all the same. There is a small part of him that wants to grab her, to shake her, to slap her face. To tell her to get over it, that she is acting like a needy child. That there are worse things in this world than loss, than death. He wants to tell her that she staked her claim on the easy side and he was left toiling for two masters, both demanding, both unyielding, both stingy with forgiveness. She doesn't know half of the horrible acts he has performed. She doesn't look at his dark mark, doesn't touch it. It has not faded with time as he had hoped it would.

She disappears into the bathroom to fix herself, to pull everything back together.

She was getting better, for a while, but she is declining again now. Of anything, this is becoming the most apparent to Snape. He doesn't think it is their relationship or the way that it had evolved. He doesn't know what it actually is, though, and hopes that meeting her parents will clue him in to some part of her psyche he doesn't currently have access to.

When she reemerges, she walks out without saying a word. He does not follow her.

At least they travel well together. They compromise by apparating to Diagon Alley and going the rest of the way by Muggle transportation. He doesn't like traveling with the Muggles – their cars and trains are always filthy and filled with unreasonably loud teenagers and sickly elderly people. He doesn't complain, even thought it is noon and everyone is milling around on their lunch hour. He feels uncomfortable and under dressed in Muggle clothes though she looks absolutely natural in jeans and a sweater, carrying a purse long enough for her wand. She moves fluidly through the crowds and does not look over her shoulder to make sure he is keeping up.

He hasn't been in many Muggle homes. To him, they have always seemed like museums – look but do not touch. Hermione's house is narrow and tall. There is a little garden and the house is beige with brown trim. There are shutters on the window, and she rings the doorbell, as if she were a guest, not family. He decides to do little more than observe, to let the afternoon unfold. He stands with his spine straight, trying to look formidable but not imposing.

He doesn't expect the woman who answers the door to look so much like Hermione, and it startles him. She has Hermione's build, her coloring, and the way she holds her mouth is just the same. It's like looking forward in time.

"Welcome," Mrs. Granger says, and they step into the house. Introductions are made and if they are disturbed by Snape's appearance or age, they show no sign of it. Hermione produces gifts from somewhere, and they are set under the tree. He knows that she has signed his name, and everyone knows he has no clue as to what is inside of the packages.

They are given beverages and seats and then they spend a few seconds staring at the space around one another.

"So, Mr. Snape," her father says. "How old are you?"

"Daddy," Hermione says, warningly.

"It's fine," Snape says. "I'm older than you and it's no secret."

"He's younger than you," Hermione says, and Snape hopes this is true. Whether it is or not, both Snape and Hermione will far outlive both her parents. This is often something Muggle-borns have trouble accepting.

"Hermione really hasn't told us anything about you," Mrs. Granger says by way of apology.

"What would you like to know?" Snape asks, feeling generous. Mildly generous, anyway.

"What is your profession?" Mr. Granger asks, quickly.

"I have a degree in Potions," he says. "I am a scientist."

It is obvious what Mr. Granger is asking, however. They've already put two and two together – this man is their daughter's teacher and has been for too many years for this to be acceptable.

"Severus is a war hero," Hermione says. Snape wishes they were simply speaking of the weather.

"Hardly," Snape murmurs. "I was lucky."

"You saved my life," she says, firmly. "He did."

But the Grangers are uncomfortable with the topic of war, and Mrs. Granger excuses herself to tend to the elaborate meal cooking in the kitchen. Hermione offers assistance but is waved away. Mr. Granger asks Snape if he likes football, and then cricket and Snape is forced to say no simply because he could not fake his way through a conversation about either. Forty-five minutes have elapsed since Snape and Hermione's arrival and Snape knows it isn't going to go any faster.

Hermione is the only topic they can agree on, and so they talk about her studies. It is useless for Hermione to explain exactly what it is that she does, but she talks about things very generally. Degrees, hours, meetings. Her father nods in the appropriate places but he doesn't understand. Snape wonders what Mr. Granger had wanted his daughter to be, when Hermione was still small. Dentist? School teacher, secretary, prime minister? Surely not this – surely not a sad woman locked into a dark lab in a distant castle. Surely not a profession they couldn't even properly converse about.

Hermione is good at being elusive. She speaks with her hands and they are flighty and distracting. Snape wanders off after a while. He leaves Hermione to her father and sidesteps the kitchen to avoid her mother. He finds his way to the backyard and steps outside even though it is gray and snowing. He doesn't mind the weather, though he doesn't leave the patio. He sits on the cold metal chair and watches a blanket form over the lawn, the roses, the still fountain. Soon, Mrs. Granger brings him a cup of tea in a hearty mug. She sits down across from him, even though she is obviously freezing. She has on only a jacket – no gloves, no scarf, no discreet warming charm.

"Thank you," he says, accepting the hot liquid. He wraps his fingers around the porcelain – it is too hot to drink.

"You're welcome," she says, tucking her hands between her knees. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course," he says, shifting his gaze back to the yard. He thinks it would be nice, in the right season. But she doesn't ask, and when he looks over at her, she just looks perturbed.

"I know what I want to ask, but I don't know how," she laughs. "You seem like a good man, Mr. Snape."

"I am good to your daughter," he corrects. It's the closest he can come to saying that he wasn't always a good man.

"Is she… all right?" her mother settles on, but he can see that she would have liked to articulate herself better. He gives her the benefit of thinking out his answer.

"On some days," he says. "But there are times when she is not."

"Is there anything to be done?" Mrs. Granger asks.

"I am beginning to suspect that there is," he says.

They eat in the late afternoon. By this time, they have all grown weary of stilted conversation and have lapsed into silence. Christmas had never been a very important holiday to Snape as a child. There had been years where it had passed unacknowledged and at Hogwarts, Snape had always stayed, but never participated. It is interesting to watch the exchanging of gifts. The pile under the tree is small, but colorful. Snape expects nothing, but is surprised when there is a box for him from the Grangers. It is a brown sweater, not unlike the one that Mr. Granger currently sports. He thanks them and Hermione tries not to snicker. Hermione has given her parents books and culinary tools, and they have given her money and books. No one looks particularly surprised at anything.

It gets dark, fast.

"You can of course stay," Mr. Granger says, but Hermione shakes her head.

"That's all right, daddy," she says, and kisses his cheek. Snape helps her into her jacket and holds the books she was given, as well as his sweater.

"It was so nice of you to come," Mrs. Granger says, shaking his hand. "We hope to see you again, soon."

He can't tell if this is a genuine statement, but he appreciates it all the same. They travel back to Diagon Alley where it is absolutely safe to apparate. It is dark, but not late and the alley is alive with people doing last minute shopping or dining before the holiday. Snape can see students of his lingering outside the ice cream shop, ministry employees window shopping. Hermione takes a delicate step away from him, putting space between their bodies.

"You don't have to do that," he says, slightly hurt. She looks at him strangely.

"I don't want to be on the front page of the newspaper anymore," she says, harshly. Nor does she want anyone to lose any jobs. She is doing it for his benefit, but all the same.

"Do you need anything in town?" he asks, trying to change the subject.

"I'm cold and tired," she says. "I just want to go home."

"Go on," he says, "I'll be along in a while." It bothers him that she doesn't argue, that she simply steps away and disapparates. This is new, too, this indifferent independence. He thinks about the first time they apparated together somewhere, how she needed that closeness, how once they arrived, she could hardly stay back. She would walk behind him, on either side, and if she stepped in front of him it would only take a moment for her to circle back around once more, orbiting him like the moon.

Snape has bought Hermione's Christmas present already. It is a book, a rare potions text, something she will like. He has written in it – lowering its value but making it more worthy for her. Now, though, he wants to get her something more, something less practical, something a girl might like to receive. He passes Flourish & Blotts and wanders into the jewelry store. It's late for them and he can see that they are getting ready to close. The clerk looks at him with narrow eyes but Snape is not detoured.

He doesn't want to buy her a ring, or anything that will dangle from her wrists and interfere with brewing. Earrings have a tendency to fall, also. He looks at the necklaces and they sparkle in their glass cages. He wants something delicate and understated – something expensive. He points to a pearl on a white gold chain.

"I'll have that one," he says, and the clerk looks relieved at Snape's decisiveness. He has the necklace wrapped and it tucks easily into his pocket.

She is asleep when he makes it to her rooms. Part of him wonders if she is still distant, still upset and he almost leaves but the thought of waking up without her unsettles him. He undresses very quietly and slides into the bed without sound. The sheets are cold, he is cold, and she is a restless sleeper. She rolls toward his heat and sleeps pressed against him.

Breakfast is quiet. There are only a few students who look sullenly up at the Christmas tree either missing their family or their friends. Staying at school over holidays is always mildly depressing and Snape almost feels sympathetic toward them. No one in Slytherin has stayed, however. The war has made them unpopular on a whole new level. Hermione eats next to him, tiredly. McGonagall is saying something about togetherness and the affirmation of life, but Snape doesn't listen. He thinks about the necklace in his pocket. He can't decide if he wants to give it to her. She yawns and rests her chin in her hand. He touches her leg under the table and she smiles at him.

After breakfast, Hermione agrees to go out with the remaining students to supervise their snowball fight. Snape doesn't go out, but he lingers on the ground floor, watching out the windows. Hermione is good with the younger children. She is patient and interested in what they have to say. He can see her, vaguely, in a maternal way though the thought of reproducing on his own behalf is foreign. He is happy to let the Snape name die. This is something they have not talked about. He realizes there is a lot they haven't talked about. Hermione is meticulous about brewing and consuming her contraceptive potions, though, and for that he is glad.

When they all come inside, red faced and freezing, she mentions something about going to take a hot bath and breezes by him. He follows a few minutes later and finds her in the tub, one leg hanging out over the edge.

"That was fun," she tells him. "Did you see Jacob take that snow ball in the face?"

"Is that why you came in?" Snape asks, seated on the closed toilet.

"He started to cry," she says. "Frankly, it was an excuse to corral them."

"You're good with them," Snape says. She smiles and dunks her head in the water. He doesn't say anything after that, and when she is finished washing her hair, she scoots forward in the tub and makes room for him, silently inviting him in. He undresses and steps in. She takes hot baths, too hot for him, but it has cooled and it feels nice. She leans against him, and he drapes his arms over her shoulders.

"I know I've been hard on you the last few days," she says.

"Oh, Hermione," he says but she shakes her head.

"I have, I know I have. I'm sorry," she says. He wants to let her off the hook, to blame her parents, the holiday, the unending agony of loss, but this isn't what she needs.

"It's all right," he says, accepting her apology.

"This is what I want it to be like all the time," she says, sadly. He know she doesn't mean the two of them in a lukewarm tub, or even the two of them on holiday.

"Why can't it be?" he asks. She doesn't answer. She holds her tongue.

She goes to her first advisory appointment of the new year wearing her necklace. It looks good against her skin, at the hollow of her throat. It is not flashy, not busy, and is easily tucked under high necked robes. He teaches while she is gone, and she is a little later than usual in coming back. She misses dinner and he has an irrational sense of worry in his gut, in the back of his throat. He feels scared, but he isn't exactly sure why.

As soon as he sees her, he knows why. She doesn't even have to tell him.

"You're taking your final year on the campus," he says.

"Yes," she replies. She doesn't show surprise at his guess, and maybe she isn't surprised.

"Merlin, why?" he asks. He thinks she is leaving him.

"I have to," she says. "I just can't stay here forever, Severus, I'm not you." And he knows she doesn't mean this to be hurtful but it is, oh it is, and he turns away. He wants to slap her. He hates, hates to be judged.

"Do I really make you so unhappy?" he asks.

"No," she says, quietly. "But it is this place. It's a mausoleum and a prison, and I just… I can't be happy here. I've tried."

"When?" he asks.

"The end of the month – I've just talked to McGonagall and she was ecstatic, of course," Hermione says, bitterly.

"What about your students?" he asks, finally turning to face her once more. He has schooled his features into a mask of indifference, but it is a lie. "You're going to leave them mid-term?"

"It's what you did," she points out. "It's what brought me back here in the first place, your sabbatical. They'll be fine. Besides, the spring semester starts, and I need to sign up for classes, for housing." He can see her making a mental list already.

"I see," he says.

"I'm not leaving you, just the castle," she says. "You understand that, don't you?"

But Snape is the castle, it's a part of him. Almost his entire life has been lived within these walls. He doesn't understand, but he nods numbly. She may still love him, but something has cracked and now she is floating away.

"Come with me," she says.

"I can't leave right now," he says. "I at least must finish out the year."

"You told me once that if I left, you would too," she says. He did say that, or something to the effect, but he never thought she would do it.

"I know," he says. She looks both disgusted and disappointed. He wants to be able to go to McGonagall right now and tell her to piss off, that he's done, finished. What exactly is holding him back? She says something about preparation and leaves his rooms for her own. He looks around the empty room and tries to get used to the feeling.

Snape doesn't usually acknowledge the portrait of Dumbledore, but now he moves soundlessly through the dark castle. He knows Minerva will be in bed and that no one will be about to witness him entering the head office. Dumbledore's likeness is snoozing but wakes up easily at the sound of Snape's voice.

"My boy," Dumbledore greets. "You look upset."

"I am upset," he says.

"Why?" Dumbledore asks. Snape wants him to know already, to get his advice and to leave.

"I have to make a hard decision," he says, carefully.

"And?"

"And I'm used to you doing it for me," Snape says. "I'm not used to having a choice."

"I've been dead for years," Dumbledore says. "You made the choice to fall in love."

"I…" But he doesn't know what to say.

"I made the choice, when I was young, to let go of love in order to spend all of my time and energy on fighting in one war or another."

"And was it the right choice?" Snape asked, his head low.

"I believe so, in the end," Dumbledore says. "But it was not the choice that made me the happiest."

"I don't understand," he says.

"We are not all meant to save the world, Severus. Some of us are merely meant to live in it," Dumbledore says sadly.

"Do you think I should leave?" Snape asks, desperately. But this is not a question that can be answered for him and Dumbledore says nothing in response.


	7. Starting Over

Hermione now lives in a small, cinderblock room. She has taken out a loan to pay for the last year of her school, and the expenses of living. In leaving Hogwarts, she has left her funding and the freedom that comes with independent study as well as the joy of teaching behind.

And, of course, in a way she has left Severus.

She hasn't, though. They are still together, still in love, but with a distance. It is harder, now. She cannot go back to the castle, and he should not come on to the campus. She has been on campus over a month now, and she has only seen him twice. Once for lunch, and once at Spinner's End where they spent the night. It's strange – she misses him desperately when he is gone, but in the hours, the minutes before she gets to see him again, she panics, desperate for escape.

She cannot live with him or without him. She doesn't tell him this.

Being on campus, ultimately, is good. She goes to her classes, the first week, in the same thing she is used to wearing but she looks out of place in the proper robes. People know who she is and think she's snooty. Maybe she is. Slowly, she reverts back to more comfortable clothes. She wears jumpers, corduroys, long sleeved shirts, sneakers. She leaves her hair down unless she is attending a brewing lab. Snape has kept her on schedule precisely, and she is not at all behind. In some areas, she is vastly ahead due to sheer experience. She raises her hand in class; she almost always has the answer.

This, this is the Hermione Granger she was meant to be.

She doesn't exactly have friends. She lives alone in her room. After a while, she gets invited to join a study group. She is used to studying alone and doesn't need the others to get by but it's also a social outing and so she agrees to go to a session, to give it a try. It's held in a study room in the main library and she arrives on time. She seats her self in the only remaining chair and opens her notes. She uses a pen – she has left quills and inkpots to the archaic charm of Hogwarts.

They study solidly for about twenty minutes. They are all potion majors and there is one boy, Corey, whom she actually went to Hogwarts with for about two years. She smiles demurely at him and he looks at her all together too knowingly. He nods his head at her once, solemnly.

There are other Hogwarts graduates, but none from Hermione's years. She is by far the youngest one there, and yet, she is never confused. She speaks softly, but certainly, and if someone has a question, she answers it without referring to her notes.

"I heard they had you teaching, Granger," Corey says, during a lull.

"First and Second years," she confirms, and though everyone else looks vaguely impressed, most of the time she felt like a glorified babysitter.

"Independent study with Snape," Corey shakes his head. "No thank you."

"Well," Hermione says, reluctant to follow this line of conversation. "We got along, actually." Everyone stares at her, as if she is lying through her teeth. "What?"

"It was in all the papers," another girl, Sarah, says. "How he saved your life in the war."

"I don't really want…" she says, shaking her head. "That was a long time ago."

"I remember," says Kevin, who is usually mute. "I had a poster of Harry Potter on my wall until just last year."

"Enough," Hermione says, slamming her notebook closed. "I have to go, excuse me."

She flees feeling the hot stares of the study group on her back. She was foolish not to expect this – this minor celebrity and the subject of Harry coming up. They speak about him like he was nothing more than a comic book hero, an epic figure from the television. Not a real person, not a real boy who won by losing. She writes to Snape in her room, tells him about the conversation, and mails it off immediately. It takes an hour for him to respond and all he asks is whether she wants him to come to her. It is a week night, it is late. _No_, she responds, because she doesn't want to see him. She doesn't want to see anyone.

Soon, they sign up for, ironically, internships and independent study programs. Everyone is abuzz with the excitement of finally stepping out of the classroom and into the real world of potions. She makes an appointment with her advisor to discuss her options.

"You could always go back to Hogwarts," her advisor jokes, but Hermione shakes her head.

"I want something new," she says. Hermione wants a dreary assignment. She wants boring, she wants unpopular. She wants to do well wherever she goes, but she does not want to excel, she does not want to shine. "Give me something no one else wants," she murmurs.

"Are you sure?" her advisor asks, surprised. Hermione knows she could have her pick.

"Certain," she says. Her advisor hands her a form and Hermione takes it willingly. The top reads _Ministry of Magic_. Inwardly, she grimaces, but outwardly, she smiles politely. She says thank you.

There are a couple problems with interning with the Ministry of Magic. One: It will be bureaucratic and dull. Two: She will be recognized by nearly every employee there. But problems are something she can handle, dull is all right. She finds herself looking forward to the lack of excitement, to the endless days ahead.

On her first day, she reports to the Ministry at seven am, alone. There is another student from her program assigned to the Ministry but she does not speak with him before hand, does not make plans to travel with him or eat lunch with him. In fact, on this first day, they do not even cross paths.

Checking in is easy, as is finding the right floor, the right room, the right person. Her supervisor is a man named Morris Merrywoods and he is short, ruddy, and boisterous. He is the antithesis of Snape and she embraces this change of environment. She works in a dark room meant for, and used for, storage. She has a wooden desk. She does the work of a beginner, a foot soldier. She sorts, she shelves, she fills out order forms and processes requests. It is tedious and most of the time she is alone.

On her second week, a request comes in from Hogwarts in Snape's slanted hand for several bulk items. Hogwarts, she sees, gets a fifteen percent discount. There is an ink spot, a spill, on the corner of the sheet. It doesn't interfere with any of the text and so he has left it. She can see where he has tried to wipe it away. It's endearing, this action from him and she misses him suddenly; it crashes over her like a wave. She hasn't seen him for some time now. He is giving her space and she is taking this gift without question.

He writes her, of course, and she writes back. He speaks of mundane things – the weather, quidditch, potion accidents. Neither of them care for these things, but they fill up the page; they hold the connection.

She prepares his shipment, moving him up to the front of the queue. She slips a note into the shipment. She tells him, in her own way, that she misses him. She expects nothing, but just before the end of the day, Morris comes back to tell her that she has a visitor.

"All right," she says, rising. In the outer office, he is there. He leans against the door frame; he looks suave. She smiles at him – she is impressed. "Hello, Professor."

"Miss Granger," he says. Morris looks on interestedly.

"Was there something I could do for you, sir?" she asks.

"Yes, there is. I received my order and while it was prompt, it was incomplete," he says. She has to bite her cheek.

"I apologize," she says. "What was left out?" He hands her back the order form. He has marked the absence in red ink. She takes it. She doesn't look at it – she knows what is missing.

"Unfortunately, sir, our office is now closed," Morris pipes up. The clock strapped to Hermione's wrist reads 5:01pm. "I can assure you it will be tended to first thing in the morning." He gives Hermione a stern look; punishment for her first mistake.

"Sorry," she says.

"I'll have to wait," Snape concedes. "Allow me to escort you out, Miss Granger?" Hermione nods.

"Of course."

On the street, the wander into Muggle London. He does not touch her, does not try to take her hand. It some way, it is like they are starting over. He makes small talk and she lets him speak. When they get tired, they go to a Muggle restaurant. It is like a real date. She laughs at his jokes, and he tells her she looks pretty. That desperate fight or flight feeling she has been struggling with is not there.

"Come home with me," he says, after, standing in front of the restaurant as the last waiter stacks chairs and wipes tables.

"Yes," she says.

Spinner's End looks almost the same. There are a few notable exceptions – it is clean and it is stocked. There is wood for the fire, food in the pantry, and even clothes in the closet. He watches her take inventory. He hangs her coat and pours her a glass of clear, cold water. She waits for him to speak.

"I have to stay through the end of the year," he says.

"I understand," she says. They have had this conversation before.

"After that," he says. "Well, I've given Minerva my resignation." He sounds a little melancholy about this. She doesn't really believe him.

"Seriously?" she asks, suddenly gleeful and relieved.

"What choice did you give me?" he accuses. "It was you or it was Hogwarts, but it was not both."

"You chose me," she whispers.

"I always do," he says. She is thrilled. She abandons her water and crawls into his lap. She never wants to go back to the castle. For all the knowledge Hogwarts has given her, it has taken too much. Though she cannot begrudge the school forever. She does now have Snape.

"Let's be happy," she says. "I'll work an unfulfilling job at the ministry and never get promoted for the rest of my life and no one will know who I am and when I come home you will be there."

"Absolutely not," he says, sternly. "You will finish your degree and quit your job for something better."

"Will I?" she asks.

"And we will fight loudly and often," he says, wrapping his arms around her.

"Because you will always be wrong," she says. His arms get a little too tight and she has to wriggle away from him.

"I am seldom wrong," he says. She doesn't say anything, but her expression is enough for him to smack her arm lightly. "Ten points for Gryffindor for cheek."

"Thank you, Severus," she says, her voice serious. He takes a moment to consider his response, to think about the way his life will be different and unsure.

"You're welcome," he says.

Hermione graduates on a Saturday in very early June.

She decides not to attend the ceremonies and three weeks later, her diploma is mailed to her at her new address. The envelope is large and slightly crinkled from the talons of the barn owl. It is addressed to her in a sloppy hand – _Hermione Granger, Spinner's End, Manchester, England_. She opens the flap and pulls out the diploma. Snape comes and peers at it over her shoulder.

"Look at you," he says. "Where shall we hang it?"

"No need," she says, sliding in back into the envelope. "I'll just keep it in my trunk for now."

"It's an accomplishment, Hermione, you ought to be proud of yourself," he chides, gently.

"I am proud!" she argues. "It's just that hanging it on a wall denotes some sort of permanency and I don't want that seeing how this is the most dreadful place I have ever lived."

"The house is in perfectly good shape," he says, looking around. It is since Hermione scrubbed every square inch of it but it's the outside of the house that concerns her. It is a dead street in a dead town. It is far from London, far from her family, far from a decent apothecary, and is in a Muggle area. Hermione asks him how he even acquired the house but it is a question he does not answer.

"I can't believe you found a buyer," she says, shaking her head. "Not that I'm complaining."

"It's nice to be owed favors," he says, mysteriously. He has not told Hermione who is purchasing the property, but she suspects it is a former death eater looking for a suitable place to hide and waste away. She doesn't care. They are taking the money and buying a flat in London, close to the magical border. She is still working at the ministry – she has loans to pay off now, and he is working nowhere. He wakes up late and brews away the better hours of daylight. He finds shady characters to buy his house while she is gone.

The new flat is wide and empty when they sign the papers. The floors gleam with fresh wax on wooden planks, and the windows are without dressings. They reach to the ceiling and let in the morning light. Hermione is so used to living in darkness and gloom that she has to squint the first day they are there. There is a big bedroom and a smaller one which Snape promptly labels as the lab. On the first weekend, Hermione paints the mostly empty bedroom yellow. Snape is out and she is over half way done before he comes home and says, "Change it."

"No," she says, "It's cheerful and I am so tired of being sad."

"It's like living in the middle of the sun, Hermione," he says.

"You can paint the lab any color you like," she says, stubbornly. "The bedroom? Yellow."

He lets her have this one thing, and she is grateful. That night, they go to bed and the room smells like paint. They sleep with the windows open to the warm night. In the room there is only the mattress on the floor and the sound of their lovemaking echoes off the walls and floor. Still, she wakes up hours later from a bad dream.

"It's okay," he murmurs.

"I know," she says, but the residual fear in her voice forces his tired eyes open.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

"I can't help but think… how long until the next evil megalomaniac comes and threatens our way of life?" she asks. "A year? Ten?"

"This is no way to live your life," he says.

"I can't help it." She sits up and pushes off the blanket. She is too hot.

"Hermione, you are going to live your life. You are going to get old, your hair will go gray. Your breasts will sag, your skin will wrinkle, and you will die surrounded by your children and your children's children. And if there is another war, then we fight and we win," he says. "Now go back to sleep."

It's sweet of him to say. She snuggles up against him and tries to close her eyes, to sink back down into a restful sleep. Something nags at her.

"Children?" she asks.

"Go to sleep," he says, forcefully. She does.

Snape unpacks while she is gone. Apart from books, they don't have much. They have purchased the mattress but no frame. Some clothes are hung in the closet, but most stay in boxes because there is no bureau. Hermione has to buy a set of dishes and utensils. There is little furniture because Hermione absolutely forbid Snape to move anything from Spinner's End. He does, however, hang her diploma in a nice frame.

"We live here now," he says, pointing to it. She is inordinately pleased with this. On the weekends, they go out to the antique shops and shop for furniture. It is a slow build – an armoire one week, a blue chair the next. It takes a full month for Hermione to find a dining room table she can approve of. She tries to worry about money, but Snape doesn't let her.

"I've had very little to spend my money on until now," he says. "We will not go to the poor house in just a few months."

She isn't sure, though, and when a private pharmaceuticals company contracts him to brew special order potions of some difficulty, she is relieved. It is not a real job, but he over charges them. At the ministry, they move her from the store room to the lab and as an assistant, she gets paid more. She promises herself she'll quit when it gets boring, but she kind of likes it, in the end.

Five years after the war, the Ministry unveils a statue of Harry Potter in the main lobby. Hermione now works as a private researcher for a corporation. She is invited to the unveiling as a special guest of the Ministry and she has to go through the front door like everyone else. Snape convinces her to go and does not complain about escorting her. She is nervous, though she isn't sure why. She has pictures of Harry and Ron that she looks at every so often and they are bound to be more shocking than a statue that probably won't look a thing like him.

But at the same time, she knows Harry wouldn't have wanted this. Not the grandeur, not the now seven published biographies, not the hero worship. He just wanted to be a boy.

She sits with the Weasleys on one side and Snape on the other. Molly holds her hand and weeps. Hermione does not cry. She grinds her teeth through the many speeches. When the curtain is pulled, the crowd gasps right on cue. The statue is slightly tacky – all gold to match with the rest of the lobby décor. It looks like Harry – messy hair, glasses, long legs. Even the detail of his wand is correct but the sight doesn't jolt Hermione that way it once might have. There is no life in the statue and when the crowd is permitted to disperse, she doesn't get closer to scrutinize the details. She stays on the fringe of the crowd. A photographer snaps a picture as Snape reaches out to touch her wrist. They hardly make the papers anymore. The war has been over for long enough that all the headlines are about Ministry politics, or Quidditch. This picture might make it though; a touching gesture from a once wanted man.

"We've been invited to the Burrow," Snape says, commanding her attention.

"All right," she agrees. She is tired. She has worked a long week and just wants to go home but they owe this to Molly and to Arthur. They owe it to Ron who continually gets left out of the story.

The Burrow is crowded with family and friends. Neville Longbottom is there – Hermione hasn't seen him for years, since he first fetched her from the Muggle bookstore. She'd heard he'd gone state side to study Herbology. He smiles at her. He is tan, and lean in a way he never was before. She has to approach him.

"You look good, Hermione," he says. He is still soft spoken; no longer stuttering.

"So do you, Neville," she says. "I just… I'm sorry for the way I treated you when we last spoke."

"It's okay," Neville says. "You were sad. I understand."

"I was mean," Hermione admits. "You didn't deserve that."

He changes the subject – Neville will never be good at talking about himself.

"I heard you were engaged to Professor Snape," he says. Hermione shakes her head.

"No, we're not engaged," she says. "Just… together."

"That's weird, because I heard Mrs. Weasley talking about your…" Suddenly Neville stops. He looks down at her hand and sees her bare fingers. He has understood his mistake.

"About my what?" she asks, demandingly.

"It was probably a different Hermione," he says, weakly.

"Oh, that seems likely," Hermione snaps and narrows her eyes at him. "Excuse me," she says. She hates secrets and she hates that Snape is keeping this from her and telling others. She finds him in the backyard. He is not the only person out there, but he is standing off by himself with a beer. It is late afternoon and in an hour or so, the sun will begin to set. She knows Snape likes to watch that.

"Severus," she says, planting herself in his line of vision. "You're keeping something from me."

"I assure you I don't know what you're talking about," he says, dryly.

"Liar," she says. "Give it to me."

"Did Molly spill the secret?" he asks.

"Neville," she says, feeling greedy, holding out her hand. He sighs dramatically and digs around his pocket until he produces the ring. It is plain. There is no stone. It is merely a small, gold band. She takes it and puts it on her ring finger. "Aren't you going to ask?"

"You're rather bossy today," he says. "I'd rather not do it in front of people, so why don't you just spare me and just say yes?"

"That's what I love about you," she says. "You're so romantic."

"I do love you," he says, draping his long and heavy arm over her shoulder. She holds out her hand and allows the sun to catch on the metal.

"I know," she says. And though it makes them both terribly anti-social and rude, they stay outside. They wait out the sunset.


	8. Epilogue

Being married to Hermione is not unlike not being married to Hermione. Their life doesn't change all that much. There are two distinct changes and those are her name and their bank accounts. Snape almost instantly gets used to the feeling of a ring on his finger. He gets used to coming home at a predictable time and owling ahead if he is going to be late. He is already used to her cooking, the smell of the detergent she prefers in his clothes, how she hums when she showers alone.

The one thing he can not get used to is the cat. It is small, it is gray, and she adores it. It isn't even practical, like an owl. It serves no useful function except to steal all of Hermione's affection away from him. She brings it home one night – a child had been giving them away from a cardboard box. She says she is _rescuing_ it. What can he do?

"We should call him Wolfsbane," she says. "He looks like a little silver werewolf."

"Why not just call him Remus?" Snape mutters.

But Hermione loves her cat. It sleeps at the foot of their bed, creeping north all night long until Snape wakes up with the beast sleeping on his head. During the day, it purrs and wraps itself around Snape's legs, leaving fur on his black trousers. It laps at his cereal when he turns away; it pads across all of the counters.

"Unhygienic," Snape complains.

"So precious," Hermione coos, rewarding it for its poor behavior.

There have been other sacrifices, of course. The flat is already equipped with electricity, and Hermione insists on getting a telephone installed so that she can talk to her parents easily. Snape has a hard time getting used to the intrusive, jangling ringing of the horrible device. He'd made the mistake of answering it once while she was out and the awkward conversation with Hermione's father that resulted convinced him to never touch the telephone again.

"I don't understand why you hold on to the Muggle world so tightly," he says on the day that she starts subscribing to both the _Prophet_ and the Muggle newspaper.

"It's part of me," she says. "You're a half-blood, you know, it wouldn't hurt you to learn a little something about this culture."

"I am not proud of my father," he says, tossing the _Prophet_ onto the counter and locking himself in the lab for the rest of the day. She lets him alone and he gets hardly any work done. She finally comes in with a meal for him and finds him sitting quietly in the dark.

"I'm sorry," she says, touching his shoulder. He touches her hand and feels the ring there. She is the one thing in life that he has done correctly.

"No need for apologies, Mrs. Snape," he says, kindly. He brings the food out into the kitchen and they eat it together. The cat mews pitifully for scraps and Snape, in a rare mood, indulges him with bits of fish and a dab of butter.

Snape knows that this is probably as normal as they will ever be. While Hermione has acquaintances from work, she has few friends. She will not be able to renew the sort of closeness she once had with Harry, with Ron, even with Ginny. But Snape is used to being alone and he knows that if Hermione can be happy with just him, he can be happy with just her.

The Snape's against the world, so to speak.

On the weekends, when there is no work to be done at home, no potions to be sent out, they travel. At first, they take day trips. Hermione has never seen Stonehenge, so he takes her and explains this history of one of the earliest wizarding societies. They go the coast on warm days and visit museums on dreary days full of rain. Hermione forces him to venture out into heavily populated Muggle areas and they do this until he is comfortable in either culture. Then they venture further – France, Spain, Switzerland. They travel well together.

Six years into their marriage, Hermione loses her father. It is sudden and unexpected. Mr. Granger has a heart attack and the Muggle doctors assure Hermione that it was quick if not painless.

"He did not suffer much," the doctor says. This does not console Mrs. Granger at all, and Snape watches Hermione carefully. He sees what she was before – empty. She does not talk to him when they leave the hospital. She drives her mother's car and Snape sits in the back, his long legs up, seemingly, around his ears. He does not complain. Mrs. Granger weeps silently, pressing Snape's handkerchief to her face. When they get back to the house, Mrs. Granger takes Snape's arm and lets him lead her into the house. Hermione follows solemnly, holding a paper bag containing her father's clothes, his wallet, his watch, and a plastic comb. Snape can hear the bag crinkle with each step.

Inside, Hermione puts her mother to bed with a glass of sherry.

"I'm going to stay," Hermione says, closing her mother's door softly. "Maybe for a few days."

"I'll stay, too," he says.

"Severus, I need you to go feed the cat, I need you to owl my work and let them know I'll be out for a few days," she says. "You're already behind on your latest shipment. I'll be fine."

"I'll be back in the morning," he assures her, reluctant to go.

The cat is fed. The owl is sent. The potions are made – or at least started. Snape lays in bed with all of the lights – electric and natural – out. He is trying to remember, but cannot, the last time he and Hermione spent the night apart. It was definitely before the wedding. He doesn't sleep much and goes back over to the house too early. Mrs. Granger sits at the kitchen table in her robe with a cup of cold tea and he can hear that Hermione is in the shower.

"Sit down, Severus," Mrs. Granger says. He sits across from her slowly and she reaches out and takes his hand. She has warmed to him considerably over the years. She can see that he loves Hermione and that he doesn't let Hermione boss him around, which is also important. He holds her hand until they hear the shower turn off and Hermione comes into the kitchen in a white robe, drying her hair with a towel.

Hermione shows no surprise at the sight of her husband. She looks tired when she sits near her mother. In her hand she has her wooden hair brush and some dark, elastic bands. Her mother takes these and brushes out her daughter's hair – she begins to plait it as if Hermione were still a very little girl. When Hermione sits, Snape can see the softest swell of her stomach – the very first evidence of the child within.

They have not yet informed Mrs. Granger of the impending birth. It is still several months away, after all, but Snape can now see that Mrs. Granger already knows. Hermione's mother has figured it out and is being pulled between two painful extremes: gleeful and desolate.

"I've made an appointment at the funeral home," Hermione says, when her hair has been braided. "I've got to get ready if I'm going to make it on time."

"We'll all go," Mrs. Granger says, rising. "You too, Severus."

"Of course," Snape says. He is curious, despite himself, to see how the Muggles deal with death. This time, Mrs. Granger drives and Hermione rides in the back seat with her eyes closed to hold in her tears. Every other block, Snape reaches back to touch her knee reassuringly. This seems only to fuel her despair but he cannot stop.

His mind wanders as they speak to the funeral director. Snape eyes the caskets warily but the Granger women are practical and choose cremation. They choose an urn and an hour for the service set for tomorrow. Snape is glad to leave the dusty mortuary.

Hermione spends the rest of the day on the telephone informing family and friends of this sudden tragedy. It is tedious, dreary work, this death. Mrs. Granger takes to her bed. Snape brings his wife tea, sandwiches, sticks of carrots, bread and jam. She is ravenous, always.

"I'll stay," Snape offers again, but she sends him home. He fails to sleep soundly again and his tossing and turning disturbs the cat. Even Wolfsbane abandons him.

At the memorial service, he spends the day shaking the hand of strangers. He is tall and dark and no one knows why, exactly, he is there until Hermione introduces him. Perhaps it is his own fault for wanting a small wedding – none of these people had been invited.

All these strangers follow them to Mrs. Granger's house with pots and dishes of food. Snape helps Hermione warm and serve it and when she is tired, he makes her excuses for her and puts her to bed.

He cleans up alone.

Mrs. Granger comes down later in her bathrobe again.

"I'll send Hermione home in the morning, my dear," she says.

"You shouldn't have to be alone," he says. "I am used to it." He is not any longer, but he can remember if he tries.

"Still," she says. "In the morning."

He kisses Mrs. Granger on the cheek and she pats his face a few times. Her wedding ring is hard against his cheekbone. There was a time, not so long ago, when he would have been lost in such a situation – completely unable to empathize but now he feels sharp pangs of sadness on Mrs. Granger's behalf. To lose a spouse seems unthinkable, intolerable.

He kisses his wife before he leaves but she doesn't stir.

She comes home the next morning, as promised. She brings leftovers and he helps her put them in the refrigerator.

"Hi," she says, smiling at him.

"Hello," he says as she takes his hand. "How are you?"

"A little sad," she says. "A lot sad, actually."

"That's all right," he tells her, knowing it's better for her to feel sad now than to allow the sadness to crush her as before.

"I'm going to change – to go to work," she says.

"I'll meet you for lunch," he says and she nods.

"I'd like that," she says.

They meet at the deli near her offices that they both like. He orders for her while she sits in the sun. He buys her something sweet on a whim while he watches her. She is not beautiful like the women on the magazines in the nearby newsstand, but she is pretty and her pregnancy is beginning to suit her. She eats her treat first.

"I feel bad," she says.

"Why?"

"I miss my father, but still, after all these years, I miss Harry and Ron more," she admits. He considers this for a while.

"I think," he says, "We are meant to lose our parents. It is harder, much harder, to lose our peers."

She nods. She can buy this; allow this bring her comfort.

"Thank you," she says. They eat, and she rests her feet on his knees. He loves being married to her – he loves that she is not ever ashamed of him. "I've got to get back," she says.

"I'll walk you," he says. When he kisses her goodbye, he rests his hand on the mole hill of her abdomen. It is solid under his fingers.

He will never leave her.

Oh, there will be times, of course, when he wants to. She will lose her mother, later, and take it much harder than her father's death. She will mope and wilt and ignore the children and he will want to give up. There will be the birth of their third child, a surprise, the same year their eldest goes off to Hogwarts. It will be a girl she will come out with a twisted foot. She will always walk with a limp and Hermione will blame herself. He will want to leave her then, but he will not. There will be other smaller fights; there will be nights on the couch and screaming battles and broken dishes and feuds that go on for days.

There will be the unfortunate and humiliating feeling of their second child being sorted into Hufflepuff. Neither will like that.

But Snape does not know all of this as he walks away from her office building, back toward Diagon Alley where he can safely apparate into the living room of their flat. All he knows is that he has a young wife, the early bloom of a new family, a fully stocked lab, and all the time in the world to be happy.

And he will be happy.

So will she.

* * *

That's the end! The _very _end. Thanks for reading.


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